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

Art exists because reality is neither real nor significant.

Our lives today are not conducted in linear terms. They are much more quantified; a stream of random events is taking place.

All you do is get on and start pedaling . . .

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.

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

Burroughs called his greatest novel Naked Lunch, by which he meant it's what you see on the end of a fork. He's a writer of enormous richness whose books are a kind of attempt to blow up this cozy conspiracy, to allow us to see what's on the end of the fork . . . the truth.