Why would I want to read something about somebody that's just a really nice, decent person who overcomes terrible trials? That's not how life is to me.

With publicity comes humiliation.

Fame is really great in a lot of ways, you know? People are a lot nicer to you. Like, the more famous you are, the more free presents you get. And invitations to really amazing things.

Brownstein's is a fresh and jaunty voice, with a jazz snap all his own.

I think powerful women don't care whether or not they're liked.

I'm writing what I want to write. But it's almost an act of rebellion on my part. Because as a person, I've always wanted to be very likeable, and I think that's a horrible thing, particularly for women. You're always like, Oh, I hope I didn't hurt anyone's feelings. I hope they like me! And that's just so stupid.

I think in a lot of ways, writing, when you're really in there, is like being an actress because you're in somebody else's head.

I felt my whole life was a facsimile of a life.

Crimes, sins, nightmares, hunks of hair: it was surprising how many of them has something to dispose of. The more I charged, the easier it was for them to breathe freely once more.

Long after the bomb falls and you and your good deeds are gone, cockroaches will still be here, prowling the streets like armored cars.

I think the sixties must have been quite a lot of fun.

In my writing I wanted to be liked for writing really unlikeable stuff. There were books that people, particularly women, hated so much. They said, I threw it against the wall! Which, in my opinion, was a compliment. Because it's very hard to get somebody to throw something.

The novel is never really in the first draft. The novel really happens in the revisions.

I feel like I sort of missed the eighties. At the time, we didn’t know we were having fun, which is probably the way it always is.