Most of us do know we have no immortality. And when you've found a genius, someone who has already purchased his immortality in musical or literary terms, it's maddening.

If our god's work is to be done in our time, we must do it ourselves.

It no longer matters who consider themselves the masters of events. Events no longer obey their masters.

There is a certain solipsism to serious illness which claims all of one's attention as certainly as an astronomical black hole seizes anything unlucky enough to fall within its critical radius.

Life doesn't retreat.

I loved you backward and forward in time. I loved you beyond boundaries of time and space.

Prison always has been a good place for writers, killing, as it does, the twin demons of mobility and diversion