Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness.

We defend ourselves by descriptions and tame the world by generalizing.

Language is a machine for making falsehoods.

The bereaved cannot communicate with the unbereaved.

confession ran in the family.

There is nothing like early promiscuous sex for dispelling life's bright mysterious expectations.

I am not famous for anything in particular. I am just famous.