When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.

The probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. The lure of it is immense. We send starships. We fall in love.

Language always betrays us, tells the truth when we want to lie, and dissolves into formlessness when we would most like to be precise.

Somewhere between fear and sex passion is.

…I noticed a woman whose face was a sea voyage I had not the courage to attempt.

Life is fragmentary, and the pattern that creativity can offer is not one that is imposed, not something rigid, but rather something which can reveal the intrinsic patterns of that fragmentation. Things are in a perpetual dance, but there is an order. It's not really random at all.

Books and doors are the same thing. You open them, and you go through into another world.