By The Time You Finish

If I Want To Write A Movie, I'll Write A Screenplay, But If I Have An Idea For A Book, It's Something That I Think Can Only Be Done Novelistically.

I Had All The Characteristics Of A Human Being—flesh, Blood, Skin, Hair—but My Depersonalization Was So Intense, Had Gone So Deep, That My Normal Ability To Feel Compassion Had Been Eradicated, The Victim Of A Slow, Purposeful Erasure. I Was Simply Imitating Reality, A Rough Resemblance Of A Human Being, With Only A Dim Corner Of My Mind Functioning

Writing A Novel Is Not Method Acting And I Find It Easy To Step Out Of It At Cocktail Hour.

But This Road Doesn't Go Anywhere,” I Told Him. “that Doesn't Matter.” “what Does?” I Asked, After A Little While. “just That We're On It, Dude,” He Said.

I Am Gripped By An Existential Panic.