Put it off for a bit. All life is putting off. Well, not entirely.

A novelist should not be too intelligent either, although... he may be permitted to be an intellectual.

It may not be nice to be good, little 6655321. It may be horrible to be good. And when I say that to you I realize how self-contradictory that sounds. I know I shall have many sleepless nights about this. What does God want? Does God want goodness or the choice of goodness? Is a man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better than a man who has the good imposed upon him? Deep and hard questions, little 6655321.

It's funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you watch them on a screen.

Civilised my syphilised yarbles.

I mean, there's little enough in this life, really, and you only find it worth living for the odd moments, and if you think you're going to have those odd moments again, then it makes life wonderful and have a meaning.

Life is, of course, terrible.