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.

Every advance in knowledge and technique is matched by a new kind of death, a new strain. Death adapts, like a viral agent.

Look at those numbers running. Money makes time. It used to be the other way around. Clock time accelerated the rise of capitalism. People stopped thinking about eternity. They began to concentrate on hours, measurable hours,man-hours, using labor more efficiently.

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

It's true that some of us become better writers by living long enough. But this is also how we become worse writers. The trick is to die in between.

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

...Because what's the meaning of doing dishes if you're not driven by something beyond necessity.