I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface and exit through it.

It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave.

The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensible earnest.

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

Then why did you tell me?

Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.

Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.