"Silence Kits"

Q: Have you procured new management?
A: No. I am, however, involved in ongoing discussions with several management consortiums to determine whether they can accommodate my specific needs and if any benefit can be gained by one of them taking me on as a client, whether their profile will be raised, and if so, will said profile be lifted very high, or moderately high. These are important considerations.
Q: What are your needs?
A: Well, I would like to be known – or infamous, say – as the author of an infinite, or maybe near-infinite, as I don’t know that you or I or any one person is capable of anything infinite, in any event, for a just-next-to-infinite number of pamphlets. They’d be more like tracts, actually, but thicker. Like little black books, address books, with fewer pages. Fit nice in back pockets, nice and snug and at hand. Crimson leather covers, gold leaf. Tasteful.
Q: To what purpose?
A: The pamphlets – let’s call them tract-pamphlets, for now – could provide a distraction, or a laugh, or counsel, a diversion from the mundane. Not too much, mind, just a little jolt, like an intellectual Snickers bar one never finishes eating.
Q: What would the content be?
A: I’m not sure yet. Religion, architectural theory, observations about the culture at large, some gardening tips, advice my uncle, a taciturn World War II veteran, imparted to me during our infrequent quail-hunting trips, recipes, art history minutae. I – I shouldn’t be telling you this, we could both be disappeared, but I have a CIA friend who passed along some translations of wiretap transcriptions of phone calls between suspected domestic terrorists, innocent stuff really unless it’s in some complicated code, meaningless, but it’s interesting. There’s one lengthy thing where a little girl is describing to her father – who must have been away on business or something – her horrific, Kafka-esque recurring nightmares, like one where she’s stranded naked in the tundra with only an American flag and it comes to life and starts devouring her. But getting back to my project, you know, I’d throw in a little bit of everything. As you may be aware, I am a blistering Quonset hut of knowledge and wisdom, and I want to share my bounty with the general public. I want to be curled up, waiting, kinetic, and psychoticly brilliant, in warm dungaree pockets worldwide.
Q: What would you call these tract-pamphlets?
A: “Wagner’s Epistles.” Or is that too narcissistic?
Q: No, no, not at all.

Q: Is the contraction dead?
A: Excuse me?
Q: Is the contraction –
A: I heard you, I heard you. I just couldn’t quite believe that you asked me that. What kind of question is that, to ask me? I mean, who do you think I am, Jacques Derrida?
Q: I thought it was a clever question, something unusual, a means of opening a new avenue for this interview, which to this point has been conventional, dull, a retread of your other recent interviews. Don’t you ever get tired of being asked about your films?
A: My films are like my children. Are you a parent?
Q: Yes.
A: Do you ever tire of talking about your children?
Q: No.
A: Well, there you are. There you are.
Q: Derrida is dead, you know.
A: Then you’ll be waiting a long time for your answer, about contractions, about the expiration of grammatical concepts. Why don’t you ask me about the influence my new, fully-stocked wine cellar is having on my present work?
Q: What are your vintages?