Fiction is experimentation; when it ceases to be that, it ceases to be fiction.

A page of good prose remains invincible.

Everything outside was elegant and savage and fleshy. Everything inside was slow and cool and vacant. It seemed a shame to stay inside.

The short story is the literature of the nomad.

My veins are filled, once a week with a Neapolitan carpet cleaner distilled from the Adriatic and I am as bald as an egg. However I still get around and am mean to cats.

For lovers, touch is metamorphosis. All the parts of their bodies seem to change, and they seem to become something different and better.

I dream that my face appears on a postage stamp.