I was taught:
Our father who art in heaven.
I thought it said arts.
I imagined my father with an easel
painting in Paradise.
How the hell can a man write when he doesn’t know where he’s going to sit the next half-hour? If this rich bastard takes the place I won’t even have a place to sleep. It’s hard to know, when you’re in such a jam, which is worse – not having a place to sleep or not having a place to work. One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a place to work. Even if it’s not a masterpiece you’re doing. Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy.
You think an ad’s just a piece of art? (…) You think it’s not about what life’s really about? That your fears and desires grow on trees? Come out of nowhere? That you just naturally want what we, your fathers, work night and day to make sure you want?
Aesthetics is for painting as Ornithology is for the birds.
“And now for a brief public service announcement: Alligators. Can they kill your children? Yes. Along those lines, to get personal for a moment, I think the best way to die would be: swallowed by a giant snake. Going feet first and whole into a slimy maw would give your life perfect symmetry.”