When people are serving, life is no longer meaningless.

A common and usually unfortunate answer is “Write about what you know.” Nothing can be more limiting to the imagination, nothing is quicker to turn on the psyche's censoring devices and distortion systems, than trying to write truthfully.

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

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

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

People will tell you that writing is too difficult, that it's impossible to get your work published, that you might as well hang yourself. Meanwhile, they'll keep writing and you'll have hanged yourself.

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