The never-ending competition between writers hasn't changed between 1868 and 2000. I used to belong to writers' workshops with other professionals, but that becomes impossible after a while. Everyone's on a different step of the career ladder. Jealousy doesn't have to erupt into murder and burying someone in Wells Cathedral, but it is always there.

Love is nothing but lust misspelled.

His imagination was always more real than the reality of daily life.

Words bend our thinking to infinite paths of self-delusion, and the fact that we spend most of our mental lives in brain mansions built of words means that we lack the objectivity necessary to see the terrible distortion of reality which language brings.

Any allegiance to a deity or concept or universal principal which put obedience above decent behavior toward an innocent human being evil.

Life doesn't retreat.

Lovemaking seems all too absurd when described.