What is it that you contain? The Dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia. The expanding universe opening in your gut. Are your twenty-three feet of intestines loaded with stars?

A homosexual is further away from a woman than a rhinoceros.

If you continually write and read yourself as a fiction, you can change what's crushing you.

The work that lasts over time is the work which still speaks to us when all contemporary interest in that work is extinct.

You never give away your heart; you lend it from time to time. If it were not so, how could we take it back without asking?

I've lived my life like a serial killer; finish with one part, strangle it and move on to the next. Life in neat little boxes is life in neat little coffins, the dead bodies of the past laid out side by side. I am discovering, now, in the late afternoon of the day, that the dead still speak.

The impulse to worship is impossible to eradicate. Even the most prosaic have to worship something.