In a crisis the true facts are whatever other people say they are.

Human existence had to have a deeper source than our own dank fluids. Dank or rank. There had to be a force behind it, a principal being who was and is and ever shall be.

Everything's a scandal. Dying's a scandal. But we all do it.

It frequently happens that I begin a novel with just a visual image of something, a vague sense of people in three dimensional space.

Look past the violence. There is a wonderful brimming spirit of innocence and fun.

Eye contact was a delicate matter. A quarter second of a shared glance was a violation of agreements that made the city operational.

Doesn't our knowledge of death make life more precious?' What good is a preciousness based on fear and anxiety? It's an anxious quivering thing