My sole literary ambition is to write one good novel, then retire to my hut in the desert, assume the lotus position, compose my mind and senses, and sink into meditation, contemplating my novel.

The rebel is doomed to a violent death. The rest of us can look forward to sedated expiration in a coma inside an oxygen tent, with tubes inserted in every bodily orifice.

Salome had but seven veils; the artist has a thousand.

The idea of wilderness needs no defense, it only needs defenders.

A man without a horse is like a man without a weapon: stunted and naked.

Is there a God? Who knows? Is there an angry unicorn on the dark side of the moon?

Our “neoconservatives” are neither new nor conservative, but old as Babylon and evil as Hell.