My thoughts tend to run toward worst-case scenarios and I’m quick to misread social cues or assume the worst, and because it’s the way I process data, I have to assume it’s going to keep showing up in my writing.
We need to speak the name of terrible things occasionally, to touch these things with our imaginations, in order to be reminded that the euphemisms we use are not the thing itself.
If given my druthers, everything I write would be some B horror movie “Swiss Family Robinson” situation. That just seems to be where I live, narratively.
Art is about play and about transcendent meanings, not reducible to politics.
There’s something about language that to me is so special, and I feel like it goes right past all my logical brain workings. It feels like a drug.
The fiction writer, at least, creates the lie to contain the truth.
Every biography is a failure in some way. It’s laced with all kinds of opacities, instabilities.
I don’t know the underlying reason why I’m a bad liar, but I know the reason I get caught is because I can’t look somebody in the eye and lie to them at the same time.
Birth is a hallucinatory experience.
I don’t think that self-loathing really gives you the pleasure that masturbation does.