It would be, for me, mere pointless pleasure, an illusion of order for this one frail, foolish, flicker-flash in the long dull fall of eternity.

Fiction does not spring into the world fully grown, like Athena. It is the process of writing and rewriting that makes a fiction original, if not profound.

One of the many interesting challenges nature presents us is its apparent disinterest in maintaining the order humans crave.

Writing a novel is like heading out over the open sea in a small boat. It helps, if you have a plan and a course laid out.

I couldn't go on, too conscious all at once of my whispering, my eternal posturing, always transforming the world with words--changing nothing.

The image-managers encourage the individual to fashion himself into a smooth coin, negotiable in any market.

Poor Grendel's had an accident. So may you all.