I Got Into Underground Comics Fairly Early

You Could Grow Up In The City Where History Was Made And Still Miss It All.

What's Beautiful About Art Is That It Circumscribes A Space, A Physical And Mental Space. If You Try To Put The Entire World Into Every Page, You Turn Out Chaos.

Apparently Brooklyn Needn't Always Push Itself To Be Something Else, Something Conscious And Anxious, Something Pointed Toward Manhattan.... Brooklyn Might Sometimes Also Be Pleased, As Here On Flatbush, To Be Its Grubby, Enduring Self.

I Don't Paint Anymore. I Haven't Since I Abandoned It At 19, In Order To Begin Writing Seriously.

How Often Had That Hydrant Even Been Opened? Did You Jet Water Through A Car Window, What, Twice At Best? Summer Burned Just A Few Afternoons Long, In The End. As For Flying, Dose Never Even Glanced At The Sky. Flying Was A Summer Within A Summer, A Whim. So Why Think Of It At All?