"I’m still trying to learn the pickpocket techniques demonstrated in this Sam Fuller classic. It was my introduction to film noir—a late-night-TV memory that wouldn’t let me go back to sleep. I am still trying to be as brave and cocky as Thelma Ritter, or as wanton as Jean Peters in the clutch—“Sometimes you look for oil, you hit a gusher.” And if I ever have as satisfying a bowl of chow fun as they do in South Street’s Chinatown . . . I’ll die happy. This is supposed to be a little McCarthy-era rant against the Reds, but it’s really about “civilians” versus the lumpenproletariat, artists on the game, loyal to a code that the squares will never understand."

"When I was 15, I was in love. At 17, I told him I’d probably sleep with another man if given the chance. He left me in that moment, on the town green, after two years of non-stop passion. He moved to Prague. Seven weeks later, a blank brown packaged arrived with a book in it. No dedication. Another life-changer. Now that I’m married to a fantasy author, I’m not sure why this book isn’t filed in fantasy. I was tricked; I don’t read fantasy. But this book has a fantastical realism that pierces to the bottom of the psyche. I’ve re-read and re-read this sucker every five years since then, and I always read a different book"

"Well, I had to have this on it! We’d like to have it on vinyl. Did you watch the documentary about Roky Erickson’s life? There’s this moment when you first come across him in the documentary. He’s sitting in this room that’s filled with junk. He has about ten or more television sets. Some are black and white, some are colour, some have no picture, just zigzags, but they’re all on full. And he’s got radios on full. And he’s sitting in the armchair and says, “This is the only way I can go to sleep! It drowns out the noises in my head.” And you’re thinking those are the noises in your head! [laughs] But he’s playing again! He’s back, it’s incredible."