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.

World is supposed to mean something that's self-contained. but nothing is self-contained.

I'm not reclusive at all. Just private.

What we are reluctant to touch often seems the very fabric of our salvation.

What did it mean, the first time, a thinking creature looked deeply into another's eyes? Did it take a hundred thousand years before this happened or it was the first thing they did, transcendingly, the thing that made them higher, made them modern, the gaze that demonstrates we are lonely in our souls?

When I work I have a sculptor's sense of the shape of the words I'm making. I use a machine with larger than average letters: the bigger the better.

One connection I see between novelists and terrorists is that we both attempt to alter consciousness.