Let death find us as we are building up our matchstick protests against its waves.

We read the weird tales in newspapers to crowd out the even weirder stuff inside us.

After 40 (old age for most of man's history), one should strive to be more or less packed and ready to go were the end call to come.

Writing isn’t a career choice. It’s self-medication that over time precipitates the madness it was meant to ward off.

If one felt successful, there'd be so little incentive to be successful.

One wants never to give up this crystalline perspective. One wants to keep counterpositioning home with what one knows of alternative realities, as they exist in Tunis or Hyderabad. One wants never to forget that nothing here is normal, that the streets are different in Wisebaden, and Louyang, that this is just one of many possible worlds.

It is perhaps sad books that best console us when we are sad, and to lonely service stations that we should drive when there is no one for us to hold or love.