Offhand, it’s hard to think of anybody who influenced art in the ’90s more than Vegas-via-Texas writer Dave Hickey, a one-time country songwriter whose plus-sized frame, nicotine-stained fingers, and overcaffeinated musings on Richard Pryor, Caravaggio, Andy Warhol, and Robert Mitchum reinvigorated the art world and argued persuasively for the necessity of beauty of art. (Sounds ridiculous that anyone would have to argue persuasively for that, I know, but the final gasps of Postmodernism weren’t particularly glorious.) For a while, Hickey was everywhere—sticking up for Normal Rockwell in Vanity Fair, lecturing at every college and art center in the country, organizing shows of his favorite artists—and then he seemed to drop off the face of the earth. He started teaching English rather than art at UNLV, and suddenly years have passed without any major Dave Hickey sightings.

His retreat from the public eye may have been a brilliant move—five years ago, “Dave Hickey” were the two most overused words in the art world lexicon, but when I heard last week that the Believer was publishing a long interview with “Dave,” I couldn’t have been more excited. The interview doesn’t disappoint, and it’s not short on choice Hickey-isms:

“I do not want to be fair. I want the art I hate to go away. If you want your art to stay around, and I hate it, get your own fucking critic! So I am not in favor of art—I’m in favor of the art I like.”

“Please feel free to use whatever I’ve told you, as you wish. It’s not like I’m worried about my, uh, reputation.”

Damn, Dave. It’s good to have you back. I didn’t realize how much I missed you. Please write a new book soon.