I believe that because I had obtained a wife who was made up of wife-signs (beauty, charm, softness, perfume, cookery) I had found love.

And I sat there getting drunker and drunker and more in love and more in love...And you can never touch a girl in the same way more than once, twice, or another number of times however much you may wish to hold, wrap, or otherwise fix her hand, or look, or some other quality, or incident, known to you previously.

Capitalism arose and took off its pajamas. Another day, another dollar. Each man is valued at what he will bring in the marketplace. Meaning has been drained from work and assigned instead to remuneration.

Any genuine work of art generates new work.

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

The self cannot be escaped, but it can be, with ingenuity and hard work, distracted.

Is death that which gives meaning to life? And I said, no, life is that which gives meaning to life.