Mobs have passions, not brains.

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.

Love is nothing but lust misspelled.

Books ... were merely nodes in a near-infinite matrix of information that exists in four dimensions, evolving toward the idea of the concept of the approximation of the shadow of Truth vertically through time as well as longitudinally through knowledge.

Nothing helps an artist's career more than a little death and obscurity.

It's one of the strangest attributes of this profession that when we writers get exhausted writing one thing, we relax by writing another.

Sometimes ... dreams are all that separate us from the machines.