Succeed! It has been done, and with a stupidity that can astound the most experienced.

My mother studied English and drama at the University of Pennsylvania, where my father studied architecture. She was a great influence in all sorts of ways, a wicked wit.

--Why are we fighting them? --They're mad. We're sane. --How do we know? --That we're sane? --Yes. --Am I sane? --To all appearances. --And you, do you consider yourself sane? --I do. --Well, there you have it. --But don't they also consider themselves sane? --I think they know. Deep down. That they're not sane. --How must that make them feel? --Terrible, I should think. They must fight ever more fiercely, in order to deny what they know to be true. That they are not sane.

The task is not so much to solve problems as to propose questions.

We are what we have been told about ourselves. We are the sum of the messages we have received. The true messages. The false messages.

Art is not difficult because it wishes to be difficult, but because it wishes to be art.

There's not a strong autobiographical strain in my fiction. A few bits of fact here and there.