A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty . . . what you will.

When you can't create you can work

The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.

For the artist to attach himself to his work, or identify himself with it, is suicidal.

Writing is its own reward.

The legal system is often a mystery, and we, its priests, preside over rituals baffling to everyday citizens.

We create our fate everyday