In a rather grim rehearsal space in Manhattan, David Bowie is sitting on a black leather couch, playing absent-mindedly with a dead white rose and a spray of baby's breath, and discussing, if he must, his new album, Heathen. To summarize the record in nineteen words: Heathen concerns the disconnect between the earthbound man and the abstractions for which he longs -- love, God, safety, peace. To summarize the record's author in six sentences (and one sentence fragment): David Bowie is a very charming man. He is a very intelligent man. He is -- needless to say, after more than thirty years of work so compelling that the New Musical Express recently named him the most influential artist of all time -- a very talented man. Good-looking, too. He radiates joy. The sheer impact of his personality is practically a superpower. In fact, it is altogether possible that he does actually come from another planet. "What did you think of the album?" he asks.

I kind of love the album. I'm a little surprised you ask. The last time we spoke, you wanted to talk about everything but your album.

I actually feel very similar now. It's not for lack of enthusiasm. I'm immensely enthused by it. But what could be less interesting than talking about pop music? I'm sorry, but is there anything less interesting? It's so tiresome, come on. You know it and I know it.

But we have to talk about the album. It is my mandate.

OK. I love this album. It's me picking over everything I've ever done before, but melding it together. It's galvanized in such a way that it has meat and bones and gravy and peas and carrots - it's the full course of what I do well. Is it not really, probably, the most open album I've written, in a way?

That would be for you to say.

I think it is. I do fairly much lay on the line my particular state of mind very honestly. What I'm good at is low-level nagging fear.

But of what?

My shoes. I mean, they're just not right.

Seriously. A fear of what?

What did Don DeLillo call it? The hum of anxiety? In one of his novels, he describes the thing that permeates the city. But, you know, it's a thing like that. It's a hum thing, man. You wouldn't understand it unless you've been there.

Come on. Seriously.

Oh . . . that thing behind everyone's steely gaze, that apprehension and that slight vulnerability, which is really there as you look past the kind of confident, I'm-the-man-for-the-job kind of look.

And that expresses a fear of what?

That we have entered into possibly a last era of survival. That, and the nagging shadow of one's finite status on this planet.

But you seem like such a happy person.

I am happy. But you know something? Every clown is. I mean, I do keep buoyant. Because if one didn't laugh, one would fucking cry, wouldn't one? Look around -- it's a nightmare, everything is awful, we have never been in such a precarious position before. It's so horrific that, sincerely, and I really mean it, if one doesn't wake up in the morning and exert buoyancy, one could get seriously depressed.

Hey, you're not smoking! Are you no longer smoking?

No, I'm not. But do you want to smoke?

No, that's OK. But I'm stunned that you quit. That's major.

It is major, isn't it? And is that the result of having a daughter? I think so. Is it the result of having to spend most of the winter out on a balcony? Even more so.

Talking about Heathen, you've described yourself as having "a feeble bipolarism."

I put it down to being left-handed. It's a sign of the devil, as you all absolutely know. Though I did read that left-handed people are a lot brighter.

And you remembered that, strangely enough.

For some reason, I tucked it away. I was really picked on when I was quite little about being left-handed.

By whom?

Kids. At school, I remember very distinctly kids laughing at me because I would draw and write with my left hand, something like, "Ooh, you're the devil."

Oh, they did not.

They did. And the teacher used to smack my hand to try and make me right-handed. I mean, it really was looked down upon in Britain at one time. And it put me outside of the others immediately. I didn't feel the same as the others because of that. So I think it might have been one of those tips of how I was going to evaluate my journey through life: All right, I'm not the same as you motherfuckers, so I'll be better than you. But, you know: things said in jest . . . And, of course, at thirteen, the eye didn't help [Bowie's left pupil was damaged in a childhood fight]. Although I quite enjoyed that as a badge of honor.

But right from the start, did you? Likely not.

Let me see. . . . No, it took me quite a time to adjust to the fact that my eyes weren't the same and that I looked weird.

Oh, you look lovely.

I thought I looked weird. Now I'm just what I am.