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I have a strange habit of walking down streets and staring up, rather than looking at shopfronts and stuff like that.

I walk around feeling a sort of existential guilt all the time; and honestly for me this house is a way of feeling less guilty about the universe.

It always amazes me to think that every house on every street is full of so many stories; so many triumphs and tragedies, and all we see are yards and driveways.

I get very caught up with things. I used to be dominated by domestic things. I had a lovely house in LA-and it became this growing, mad obsession.

I keep all my clothes on in House on Haunted Hill, Mary Jane's Last Dance, and The Way of the Gun.

The sort of enjoyment that we all get from that voyeuristic impulse of looking into other people's house as we pass them, and the idea that there might be something sinister or strange going on in the houses we pass every day or in our neighborhood, is a very compelling idea.

I get strangely obsessed about the cleanliness of my house.

One of the first times that I went into a book store and saw a bunch of my books, my impulse was to put them all under my coat and run away so that no one else could see them, even though, of course, I wanted everyone to see them.

I felt weary of the responsibility of owning houses and was glad enough to pass mine on to others.