We All Have An Old Knot In

Every Night I Cut Out My Heart. But In The Morning It Was Full Again

I See Myself As Someone Who's Been Saved By Writing. God Knows What I Would Have Been, Become Or How I Would Have Ended Up Without It.

As Someone Who Writes Novels That Are Often Set In Other Periods Of Time Or Other Ages Or Other Landscapes, There's A Certain Element Of Research I Have To Do, And Often, The More Laconic People Are, The More Interesting They Become.

This Last Night We Tear Into Each Other, As If To Wound, As If To Find The Key To Everything Before Morning.

You Can See That The Care He Took Defiling The Beauty He Had Forced In Them Was As Precise And Clean As His Good Hands Which At Night Had Developed The Negatives, Floating The Sheets In The Correct Acids And Watching The Faces And Breasts And Pubic Triangles And Sofas Emerge. The Making And Destroying Coming From The Same Source, Same Lust, Same Surgery His Brain Was Capable Of. (on New Orleans Photographer E. J. Bellocq)