I wanted to rub the human race in its own vomit, and force it to look in the mirror.

Elaborate burial customs are a sure sign of decadence.

In his mind Vaughan saw the whole world dying in a simultaneous automobile disaster, millions of vehicles hurled together in a terminal congress of spurting loins and engine coolant.

The suburbs dream of violence.

There is a British pop group called God. At a recent book signing the lead singer introduced himself and gave me a cassette. I have heard the voice of God.

After being bombarded endlessly by road-safety propaganda it was almost a relief to find myself in an actual accident.

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