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

I can walk into a bookstore and hand over my credit card and they don't know who the hell I am. Maybe that says something about bookstore clerks.

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.

Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

A writer's life is so hazardous that anything he does is bad for him. Anything that happens to him is bad: failure's bad, success is bad; impoverishment is bad, money is very, very bad. Nothing good can happen... Except the act of writing.

The act of composition is a series of discoveries.

We're always attracted to the edges of what we are, out by the edges where it's a little raw and nervy.