There are moments when I cannot bear this unremitting consciousness. It knows only itself. Awake, I am in a continuum with my dreams. I feel my typewriters, my table, my chair to have that assurance of a solid world, where things take up space, where is not the endless emptiness of insubstantial thought that leads to nowhere but itself. My memories pale as I prevail upon them again and again. They become more and more ghostly. I fear nothing so much as losing them altogether and having only my blank endless mind to live in.

Communists have no respect for people, only for positions.

Dad is always hiding in his book.

There is no longer any such thing as fiction or nonfiction; there's only narrative.

If you feel a bump on page one hundred, it may be you went off on page fifty.

It proposed that human beings, by the act of making witness, warranted times and places for their existence other than the time and place they were living through.

I worry about images. Images are what things mean.