Fame requires every kind of excess. I mean true fame, a devouring neon, not the sombre renown of waning statesmen or chinless kings.

You live in a tower that soars to heaven and goes unpunished by God.

Only a catastrophe gets our attention. We want them, we depend on them. As long as they happen somewhere else. This is where California comes in. Mud slides, brush fires, coastal erosion, mass killings, et cetera. We can relax and enjoy these disasters because in our hearts we feel that California deserves whatever it gets. Californians invented the concept of life-style. This alone warrants their doom.

You have to break through the structure of your own stonework habit just to make yourself listen.

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.

Be willing to die for your beliefs, or computer printouts of your beliefs.

I am not comfortable with abstract writing, stories that look like essays: you have to see, I need to see.