Writing Is A Lonely Business.

I Write In Blood Because I Remember What It Felt Like To Bleed.

The Poetry, If You Will, Of Life Is Reduced To This Sort Of Dry, Scientific, You Know, It's The Worst Sort Of Précis Of Who We Are.

Estranged From The Tribe That Gives No Protection, What Happens To The Soul That Hates Its Reflection?

All Art Is Exploitation.

I Recognize Now That The Conditions That Indians Are Living In Are The Conditions That Poor People Everywhere Are Living In.