Art exists because reality is neither real nor significant.

Sooner or later, everything turns into television.

Any fool can write a novel but it takes real genius to sell it.

One of the things I took from my wartime experiences was that reality was a stage set... the comfortable day-to-day life, school, the home where one lives and all the rest of it... could be dismantled overnight.

Given that external reality is a fiction, the writer's role is almost superfluous. He does not need to invent the fiction because it is already there.

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

Hell is out of fashion --institutional hells at any rate. The populated infernos of the 20th century are more private affairs, the gaps between the bars are the sutures of one's own skull. . .