I must go down to the seas again to find where I buried the hatchet with Yesterday.

But it is imperative, for our own survival, that we avoiid one another, and what more successful means of avoidance are there than words? Language will keep us safe from human onslaught, will express for us our regret at being unable to supply groceries or love or peace.

Much of living is an attempt to preserve oneself by annexing and occupying others.

The only certainty about writing and trying to be a writer is that it has to be done, not dreamed of or planned and never written, or talked about (the ego eventually falls apart like a soaked sponge), but simply written; it's a dreadful, awful fact that writing is like any other work.

I am not really a writer. I am just someone who is haunted, and I will write the hauntings down.

From the first place of liquid darkness, within the second place of air and light, I set down the following record with its mixture of fact and truths and memories of truths and its direction toward the Third Place, where the starting point is myth.

Timmy, who made a daring escape, also made a mistake of paying the taxi driver with a check made out of toilet paper.