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

--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 best way to live is by not knowing what will happen to you at the end of the day.

There was no particular point at which I stopped being promising.

Goals incapable of attainment have driven many a man to despair, but despair is easier to get to than that -- one need merely look out of the window, for example.

I think writers like old cities and are made very nervous by new cities.

Any genuine work of art generates new work.