My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That's heaven. That's gold, and anything else is just a waste of time.

The jagged mountains were pure blue in the dawn and everywhere birds twittered and the sun when it rose caught the moon in the west so that they lay opposed to each other across the earth, the sun whitehot and the moon a pale replica, as if they were the ends of a common bore beyond whose terminals burned worlds past all reckoning.

The trouble with a liar is he can't remember what he said.

Nothin wounded goes uphill, he said. It just dont happen.

We think we are the victims of time. In reality, the way of the world isn't fixed anywhere. How could that be possible? We are our own journey. And therefore we are time as well. We are the same. Fugitive. Inscrutable. Ruthless.

Each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins.

Do you have any notion of how goddamned crazy you are?