I kept staring into the blackness of the woods, drawn into the darkness as I always had been. I suddenly realized how alone I was. (But this is how you travel, the wind whispered back, this is how you’ve always lived.)
And it struck me then, that I liked Sean because he looked, well, slutty. A boy who had been around. A boy who couldn’t remember if he was Catholic or not.
When I’m writing a book, I’m not thinking, “Oh, this would be a great movie.” This would be a very interesting book. And I think the books are things that cannot really be adapted into another medium.
It’s as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there… is… no… key.
I think the ’80s created me, in a way, when I look back on that time, but I don’t necessarily think that a lot of my choices, and a lot of things that I did, and a lot of things that happened to me – or I let happen to me – were about that decade.
That’s how I became the damaged party boy who wandered through the wreckage, blood streaming from his nose, asking questions that never required answers.
Regardless of the business aspect of things, is there a reason that there isn’t a female Hitchcock or a female Scorsese or a female Spielberg? I don’t know. I think it’s a medium that really is built for the male gaze and for a male sensibility.
But this road doesn’t go anywhere,” I told him. “That doesn’t matter.” “What does?” I asked, after a little while. “Just that we’re on it, dude,” he said.
