Consciousness is only possible through change; change is only possible through movement.

Nonsense is an assertion of man's spiritual freedom in spite of all the oppressions of circumstance.

The critics don't interest me because they're concerned with what's past and done, while I'm concerned with what comes next.

Thought is barred in this City of Dreadful Joy and conversation is unknown.

And along with indifference to space, there was an even more complete indifference to time. "There seems to be plenty of it", was all I would answer when the investigator asked me to say what I felt about time. Plenty of it, but exactly how much was entirely irrelevant. I could, of course, have looked at my watch but my watch I knew was in another universe. My actual experience had been, was still, of an indefinite duration. Or alternatively, of a perpetual present made up of one continually changing apocalypse.

To write fiction, one needs a whole series of inspirations about people in an actual environment, and then a whole lot of work on the basis of those inspirations.

Maybe this world is another planet's Hell.