Talking, talking. Spinning a web of words, pale walls of dreams, between myself and all I see.

The primary subject of fiction is and has always been human emotion, values, and beliefs.

So childhood too feels good at first, before one happens to notice the terrible sameness, age after age.

What art ought to do is tell stories which are moment-by-moment wonderful, which are true to human experience, and which in no way explain human experience.

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

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

There is no limit to desire but desire's needs.