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

Fear is unnatural. Lightning and thunder are unnatural. Pain, death, reality, these are all unnatural. We can't bear these things as they are. We know too much. So we resort to repression, compromise and disguise. This is how we survive the universe. This is the natural language of the species.

Men with secrets tend to be drawn to each other, not because they want to share what they know but because they need the company of the like-minded, the fellow afflicted.

In our world we sleep and eat the image and pray to it and wear it too.

One of my earliest memories as a reader - I don't know how old I was, quite young - was a poem of his, called "Fog," and I remember the first verse, "The fog comes / on little cat feet".

That's why people take vacations. No to relax or find excitement or see new places. To escape the death that exists in routine things.

In a crisis the true facts are whatever other people say they are.