The world is full of abandoned meanings. In the commonplace I find unexpected themes and intensities.

Just because it's on the radio doesn't mean we have to suspend belief in the evidence of our senses.

Silence, exile, cunning and so on... it's my nature to keep quiet about most things. Even the ideas in my work.

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 less important you are in an office, the more they expect the happy smile.

Maybe when we die, the first thing we'll say is 'I know this feeling. I was here before'.