THE INTERVIEW

Invent for me the exact movements the bodies of Peter Mills and Simon Vincenzi make as they perform the poetic choreography of The Quantum Ballet. Their naked skin is pink and they wear thick sweaters and black masks. Their red cocks are stiff.

I have them hold one end of a table or a piano. One hand is at the middle and one at the top, giving them something to lean on. Then I push them. They lean forward, they lean back. I get them to lunge. One time I even get them to throw themselves into the air. This is their dance, the thing they love most. It was written in four days, for six actors. It's difficult for me to imagine what that feels like. Perhaps the reason we could not talk about it was because for some reason, it is very personal.

The day after we rehearsed The Quantum Ballet, I took Peter home with me. I have never done this before, and it was by far the most spontaneous meeting between a famous man and a lesser-known man I have ever had. It's hard to write a book about you. This is the way it has always been.

I interviewed Peter Mills in a Chinese restaurant in SoHo. He was eating tacos, drank iced tea from a bottle, and said he was not going to talk about his life with me because it was too complicated. Peter Mills has said, more than once, that, like all artists, he has left his most intimate thoughts on the page and in the dance. He has said, even more than once, that the act of putting words on the page is in itself "fucked up." He has said, also, that he wanted to say to me something, and that he did not want to deceive me. He said, "I don't think I'm a trustworthy person." He said, "I would prefer to be real with you."

The first thing Peter said to me was that he would be at a good distance from me the whole time. I understood him perfectly. I didn't want to overwhelm him, or to give the illusion of intimacy. For one thing, he is so smart and so talented that I never felt confident that I could match his intelligence. He has a lot of amazing ideas, and I don't want to disagree with him. That would be stupid. The second thing he said was, "I'll be reading the interview in the magazine." I said, "I don't like talking on tape." He said, "Can I tell you something? Don't go anywhere in your mind except to me."

Peter is straight, and has a beautiful girlfriend who is not an actress. She's someone he met at a party. She is wearing a mini skirt and her hair is done up in a French twist, like it was in the eighties. They're having dinner at this Cuban restaurant in Chinatown. I tell them we have to go; it's almost closing time. We say goodbye to the girl and go to my hotel.

Advertisement Continue reading the main story

For the first few hours I am anxious. I don't know what's going to happen. I think about what it would be like to live inside his head. Is he a madman? Is he a shaman? I think I might have talked to many of the people I've written about before, and some I have not, and I have talked to all kinds of people who are mad, and those who are not. They don't seem that different from one another. They all want to be read. Peter seems crazy to me. I am the only one who has been told not to be afraid of him. That's what they told me.

We talked until 2 a.m. Peter had never read anything I've written before. In fact, when I first asked him if he would be willing to do this interview, he said, "I don't want to read any other books."

Many times since I started doing this interview work, people have said things like, "You were brilliant." I always say, "I don't think so." They say, "But you're brilliant." I say, "I am a writer, I have my opinion." They say, "But you're brilliant." I say, "Not really." They say, "Yes, you are."

THERE IS a belief, probably mostly correct, that I can read people. I'm the only person in the business who can. I can look at someone in the eye and see what's going on. But when I'm talking to Peter, the lights go down. We are eating and drinking in a little Chinese restaurant and I don't know what he's thinking, or if he's thinking anything. I'm so excited. I'm excited to talk to someone who has influenced me, who I admire so much. I'm nervous.

Newsletter Sign Up Continue reading the main story Please verify you're not a robot by clicking the box. Invalid email address. Please re-enter. You must select a newsletter to subscribe to. Sign Up You will receive emails containing news content , updates and promotions from The New York Times. You may opt-out at any time. You agree to receive occasional updates and special offers for The New York Times's products and services. Thank you for subscribing. An error has occurred. Please try again later. View all New York Times newsletters.

We are about to say good-bye, and I tell him it's the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me, that we're going to spend the next three hours together, and he smiles and says, "It's going to be a special time."

He says, "It's my idea. I'm the guy who came up with this. And I want you to think about this. My job is not to judge. My job is to look at things from the outside, so I can tell the story from the outside, but you have to look at things from the inside, and ask yourself the question, Is this the truth?"

Now it is 4:45. I get out of the elevator, take a right, then another right. Peter is standing by the baggage carousel. He has two suitcases.

"I've got to go," I tell him. "You're going to go with me, right?"

Advertisement Continue reading the main story

"Yeah," he says.

"It's going to be a special time."

He gives me a hug, kisses me on the cheek, and leaves. I am relieved. The cab driver is just there, watching.

I tell him it's been an amazing night, but I've got to go, but I love him. I tell him I'm going to be on a beach somewhere in this piece of shit town. He has no idea what I'm saying. We hug again, and I get in the cab. He stands there, forlorn and sad. He has no idea what is about to happen.

​