This is not work but a kind of workmanship. First out of paper, then from the body. To provoke thought into form, molded according to a measure. I think of a tailor who is his own fabric.

'Teach us the names of what we have destroyed.'

What we conceal Is always more than what we dare confide. Think of the letters that we write our dead.

'We lived in places that we never knew. We could not name the birds perched on our sill, Or see the trees we cut down for our view. What we possessed we always…

I don't see myself as experimenting in any conscious way, it's perhaps that certain books require different densities of language.

Writing anything, it sorta starts the way you'd build a castle at the beach. You're just taking your hands and you're mounting up sand.

I rail against writers who talk about the loneliness of it all - what do they want, a crowd looking over their typewriters? Or those who talk about having to s…