Yes, sometimes I think that all my writing is nothing more than the compensatory work of a frustrated painter.

I thought it was a wonderfully conceptual act actually, to fire a replica pistol at a figurehead - the guy could have been working for Andy Warhol!

Sleep is an eight-hour peep show of infantile erotica.

I've never suffered from writer's block. I have plenty of ideas, sometimes too many. I've always had a strong imagination. If it dries up I'll stop and look for another career.

The only truly alien planet is Earth.

I feel that the surrealists have created a series of valid external landscapes which have their direct correspondences within our own minds.

The twentieth century ended with its dreams in ruins. The notion of the community as a voluntary association of enlightened citizens has died forever. We realize how suffocatingly humane we've become, dedicated to moderation and the middle way. The suburbanization of the soul has overrun our planet like the plague.