I didn’t do anything. I don’t have an explanation, I don’t know why I wanted to write. I did some short stories at that time, but very infrequently. I quit my job just to quit. I didn’t quit my job to write fiction. I just didn’t want to work anymore

People hurried past, the others of the street, endless anonymous, twenty-one lives per second, race-walking in their faces and pigments, sprays of fleetest being.

When he died he would not end. The world would end.

Before pop art, there was such a thing as bad taste. Now there's kitsch, schlock, camp, and porn.

Stories are consoling, fiction is one of the consolation prizes for having lived in the world.

The force of a death should be enormous but how can you know what kind of man you've killed or who was the braver and stronger if you have to peer through layers of glass that deliver the image but obscure the meaning of the act? War has a conscience or it's ordinary murder.

Certainly I've never tried to imagine what the future will hold. It's a hopeless endeavor to try to do such a thing.