Our Lives Are Not All

The Images I Had Were Of People Being Driven Mad By Living In The City. Images Of Parents Who Were So Hungry And Unfulfilled That They Ate Their Own Children.

A Curtain Of Stars, Miles Of Them, Are Scattered, Glowing, Across The Sky And Their Multitude Humbles Me, Which I Have A Hard Time Tolerating. She Shrugs And Nods After I Say Something About Forms Of Anxiety. It's As If Her Mind Is Having A Hard Time Communicating With Her Mouth, As If She Is Searching For A Rational Analysis Of Who I Am, Which Is, Of Course, An Impossibility: There... Is... No... Key.

Life Is Like A Typographical Error: We're Constantly Writing And Rewriting Things Over Each Other.

I Think The Books Are The Books. They Were Conceived As Books. They Weren't Conceived As Movies. When I Write Scripts, That's An Idea And A Situation That I Think Is A Really Good Idea For A Movie. When I'm Writing A Book, I'm Not Thinking, "oh, This Would Be A Great Movie." This Would Be A Very Interesting Book. And I Think The Books Are Things That Cannot Really Be Adapted Into Another Medium.

What Keeps Me Interested--and It Always Does--is How Can She Be A Bad Actress On Film But A Good One In Reality?