Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a word to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and delight, the canary that sings on the skull.

He is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, for that is what he will know.

Johnston's books are beautifully written and among the funniest I have ever read.

poetry has been able to function quite directly as human interpretation of the raw, loose universe. It is a mixture, if you will, of journalism and metaphysics, or of science and religion.

The novel is a game or joke shared between author and reader.

The irrational haunts the metaphysical.

I do not so much write a book as sit up with it, as a dying friend. I hold its hand and hope it will get better.