Dogs are a habit, I think.

I am dead against art's being self-expression. I see an inherent failure in any story which fails to detach itself from the author-detach itself in the sense that a well-blown soap-bubble detaches itself from the bowl of the blower's pipe and spherically takes off into the air as a new, whole, pure, iridescent world. Whereas the ill-blown bubble, as children know, timidly adheres to the bowl's lip, then either bursts or sinks flatly back again.

I know that I have in my make-up layers of synthetic experiences, and that the most powerful of my memories are only half true.

I can't see or feel the conflict between love and religion. To me, they're the same thing.

Exhibitionism and a nervous wish for concealment, for anonymity, thus battle inside the buyer of any piece of clothing.

the process of reading is reciprocal; the book is no more than a formula, to be furnished out with images out of the reader's mind.

Some ideas, like dandelions in lawns, strike tenaciously: you may pull off the top but the root remains, drives down suckers and may even sprout again.