Desire renders life like a poem: it collapses space and time, it calls into focus images, sensations, new voices and forms of seeing and saying something.
The dragon named communism, the final boss of history.
If you have one hour and you write for that whole hour, suddenly there is a book or at least part of a book, and when you have part of a book, you can always finish it.
His resistance to canned models exposes the fragility of the sclerotic aesthetic order that reigned in his time.
Perhaps the literary community needs a lot more of the absurd, even in spades, and perhaps especially in relation to economics.
From this angle, it’s almost as if the narrative itself—an ethereal ghost story and a cautionary tale about land grabs—is inconsequential to the book’s real currency: its paradoxically prominent underappreciation.
The value of lived experience, an epistemological commodity I was assumed to have in quantity.
Queering the relationship between form and genre, troubling the notion of what makes a novel, working through questions of queerness and bodies and desire and space and language on the page.
The thing about surveillance, there's a lot of boredom in it. This was part of the attraction, I think, to becoming detectives.
American cinema is nothing short of the dramatization of the desires and fears of an entire people.
You're a man now, I'm your blanket.