Everybody in the book feels in some way as if they’re lost at sea, and are grasping for something to get them through. And the thing that they often grasp for is something that’s kind of irrational, makes no sense, is ridiculous. And it becomes almost a celebration of irrationality as a human character trait to be cherished.

I had in mind a book that was going to sit on a shelf, lie playing dead across the shelf and depress you for failing it.

Depression fucking sucks, dude. Depression sucks. And part of you thinks, “Well if I have to deal with being fucking depressed, I’ll figure out some way to make some art out of it.”

People do all kinds of unexpected things in these transitional times of their lives. And they don’t need to be sorry for it, because it is part of being human, and it isn’t about being a good person or a bad person. I think just telling the truth of that is kind of important and revolutionary.

When asked about what kind of kid he thought The Fifty Year Sword has become, Danielewski was quick to answer, “He’s the little infidel, the little kid who’s going to do what he wants. He’s vicious. He’s Chucky.”

She made me talk about why I felt I could never make anyone care about these people the way I cared about them. She made me realize I just had to keep on doing my reporting. Obviously, it was late for those children, but if I could investigate and document a little better, maybe some attention would be paid.

For the record no serious critic goes into a job planning to do a takedown. All I heard about Mad Men was that it was great...I sat in my bedroom watching with a good friend of mine and we looked at each other after three episodes and I said, “The love is not happening.” Then it becomes interesting.

So many of us had collections of short stories we read in seventh grade as an introduction to fiction. We were never taught the short story as a unique form. It was an introduction to longer forms. This book was really about looking at what makes a short story such a distinct discipline. The writers we chose to introduce the stories are known for their mastery of that particular medium, which is so deceptively difficult.

The fact that there is so much of Bach’s music, and so many recordings, means that you know from the start that you are never going to hear it all, even if you live to be 100. There’s always going to be a freshly rearranged cantata, or another new recording. So as a writer you know you have to cover all the important works and let other pieces fill themselves in.

Every time you draw something, much like acting, you have to get into the role on some level of what that person is thinking or feeling. It’s easier to draw a sadist. The more difficult thing is to draw ordinary people doing atrocious things.

It’s not really that David had any answers for people. But he never stops taking his life seriously and he never stops taking the reader’s life seriously. And I think that’s the connection: you never stop mattering to him and he never stops mattering to himself.

Columbia’s bureaucracy got weird when they found out I was a convicted felon. I lost my three campus jobs. You’re basically fighting against a system.

The honest truth is that once the award's over, you forget about it. You go back and struggle over each page. The writing doesn’t get the least bit easier. It’s like a really incredible vacation — you go return to your real life.

All you have in life is what you remember. It’s the one filament connecting you to the void. It doesn’t necessarily become art.

I wanted to talk about the time when women did not have choices in reproduction. The consequences of not having a choice are gruesome.

It occurred to me I hadn’t really read anything about gay soldiers in the trenches — there must have been gay soldiers there, and surrounded by so much horror, relationships must have struck up. But that wasn’t something I had read. It was a new way into a familiar story.

The purpose of my acknowledgment of the existence of human sexuality in the novel was to make myself and my family (and probably the reader) as uncomfortable as possible...Speaking of which, instead of Otis Redding, I'm going to sing "My Humps." Hold my beer, please.