She Is Not A Writer At All,

Here Is The World, And You Live In It, And Are Grateful. You Try To Be Grateful.

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

The Lives Great Artists Live And The Books They Write Are Two Very Different Things.

If She Were Religious, She Would Call It The Soul. It Is More Than The Sum Of Her Intellect And Her Emotions, More Than The Sum Of Her Experiences, Though It Runs Like Veins Of Brilliant Metal Through All Three. It Is An Inner Faculty That Recognizes The Animating Mysteries Of The World Because It Is Made Of The Same Substance

You Could Say I Don't Want For Me Be Seen Primarily As A Gay Writer. I've Never Hidden My Sexuality. It Matters That I'm Gay, It Matters That I'm White, It Matters That I'm Male, It Matters That I'm American. But Basically It's Just Less And Less Of A Big Deal.