Someone dying asks if there is life after death. Yes, comes the answer, only not yours.

Images break with a small ping, their destruction is as wonderful as their being, they are essentially instruments of torture exploding through the individual's calloused capacity to feel undifferentiated emotions full of longing and dissatisfaction and monumentality.

History is the present. That's why every generation writes it anew. But what most people think of as history is its end product, myth.

Poems have ideas. The ideas of poems come out of their emotions and their emotions are carried on images.

I am led to the proposition that there is no fiction or nonfiction as we commonly understand the distinction: there is only narrative.

We are able to walk on air, but only as long as our illusion supports us.

Things that appear on the front page of the newspaper as 'fact' are far more dangerous than the games played by a novelist, and can lead to wars.