I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.

In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.

If a traditional publisher offered me a quarter of a million dollars for a novel, I'd consider it. But anything less than that, I'm sure I can do better on my own.

At the age of eight I became, in my own eyes at least, a writer.