If I do not seem to be mentioning anything I’ve read lately, it is because I am in one of those periods of undifferentiated flux or something in which I am reading about fifty, at a minimum, books at once, so of course I seldom finish one. Eventually this phase will pass, and I’ll discover I have about ten pages to go in all of them, and will sit down and systematically finish them, one after another.

Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable.

I tend to be rather inconsequential and trail off.

To take my work seriously would be the height of folly.

It's well we cannot hear the screams we make in other people's dreams.

There are so many things we've been brought up to believe that it takes you an awfully long time to realize that they aren't you.

I don't know what it is I'm doing. But it's not that. Despite all evidence to the contrary.