Even when you self-destruct, you want to fail more, lose more, die more than others, stink more than others.

Ecology is boring for the same reason that destruction is fun.

Mirrors and images. Or sex and love. These are two separate systems that we miserably try to link.

In this century the writer has carried on a conversation with madness. We might almost say of the twentieth-century writer that he aspires to madness. Some have made it, of course, and they hold special places in our regard. To a writer, madness is a final distillation of self, a final editing down. It's the drowning out of false voices.

The future belongs to crowds.

A person rises on a word and falls on a syllable.

Facts are lonely things.