Everything Is Barely Weeks. Everything

Insanity's So Personal. It's Hard To Know Who Shares Our Secrets.

I Think There Is A Sense Of Last Things In My Work That Probably Comes From A Catholic Childhood.

In This Century The Writer Has Carried On A Conversation With Madness. We Might Almost Say Of The Twentieth-century Writer That He Aspires To Madness. Some Have Made It, Of Course, And They Hold Special Places In Our Regard. To A Writer, Madness Is A Final Distillation Of Self, A Final Editing Down. It's The Drowning Out Of False Voices.

When My Head Is In The Typewriter The Last Thing On My Mind Is Some Imaginary Reader. I Don't Have An Audience; I Have A Set Of Standards.

America Can Be Saved Only By What It's Trying To Destroy.