--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.

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

The aim of literature ... is the creation of a strange object covered with fur which breaks your heart.

Food ... is the topmost taper on the golden candelabrum of existence.

How can you be alienated without first having been connected?

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

The death of God left the angels in a strange position.