Language can't describe reality. Literature has no stable reference, no real meaning. Each reader's interpretation is equally valid, more important than the author's intention. In fact, nothing in life has meaning. Reality is subjective. Values and truths are subjective. Life itself is a kind of illusion. Blah, blah, blah, let's have another scotch.

I do give books as gifts sometimes, when people would rather have one than a new Ferrari.

Life's mysterious, strange, and full of wonders - and only a fool withdraws from it willingly and lets it pass him by.

There's still a fascination with somebody who can write at book length, no matter what the book is.

Your sense of responsibility to others can never be excessive.

Lies hurt people; imagination makes life more fun.

In a book, even the real bastards can't hurt you. And you can never loose a friend you make in a book. When you get to a sad part, no one's there to see you cry. Or wonder why you don't cry when you should.