The only truly alien planet is Earth.

The endless newsreel clips of nuclear explosions that we saw on TV in the 1960s (were) a powerful incitement to the psychotic imagination, sanctioning *everything*.

I take for granted that for the imaginative writer, the exercise of the imagination is part of the basic process of coping with reality, just as actors need to act all the time to make up for some deficiency in their sense of themselves.

A ton of Proust isn’t worth an ounce of Ray Bradbury.

In the post-Warhol era a single gesture such as uncrossing one's legs will have more significance than all the pages in War and Peace.

Perhaps the future belongs to magic, and it's we women who control magic.

Au revoir, jewelled alligators and white hotels, hallucinatory forests, farewell.