Truthfully, I really never get lonely. I mean, I certainly can say that there are people that I miss, specific people that I've missed in my life numerous times, some very grievously. But a kind of abstract loneliness? No.
At a certain point you lose interest in yourself, or at least you should. There’s a limit to how long you can think about one person, even if that person is you. I’ve lost interest in the subject.
My idea of a great literary dinner party is Fran, eating alone, reading a book. That’s my idea of a literary dinner party. When I eat alone, I spend a lot of time, before I sit down to my meager meal, choosing what to read.
That should be it for the Oscars. This is a good excuse. They should say, "Well, we’re not going to have it anymore because we don’t want everyone to get hit."
My editor—who, whenever I introduce him as my editor, always says, “easiest job in town”—he says that the paralysis I have about writing is caused by an excessive reverence for the written word, and I think that’s probably true.
The daughter of a friend of mine called me this morning and said, “I can bring an iPhone. I can explain to you how to use it.” And I said, “Not having these things is not an accident.” I know they exist. It’s like not having children: it was no accident.
I happen to love a good run almost as much as sex. Like sex, there are often times I don't think I'm interested until I'm into it. Unlike sex, I do have to get out of bed and into the elements. I hate leaving bed.
As far as wanting to go places, I can’t believe people do it for fun. When I’m in airports, and I see people going on vacations, I think, "How horrible could your life be?"
Sometimes kids come up to me in the streets: "Thank you, thank you for fighting for..." I didn't fight for your rights. I didn't fight for my rights. I just tried to avoid these problems. That's what I did.