Art imitates Nature in this; not to dare is to dwindle.

That's the trouble with caring about anybody, you begin to feel overprotective. Then you begin to feel crowded.

So much love, too much love, it is our madness, it is rotting us out, exploding us like dandelion polls.

The Florida sun seems not much a single thing overhead but a set of klieg lights that pursue you everywhere with an even white illumination.

I think it's the sentence-to-sentence pleasures, the little surprises of a surprising style of an acute style, and also the way things happen one after the other, that makes a book interesting to read page to page

What more fiendish proof of cosmic irresponsibility than a Nature which, having invented sex as a way to mix genes, then permits to arise, amid all its perfumed and hypnotic inducements to mate, a tireless tribe of spirochetes and viruses that torture and kill us for following orders?

Americans have been conditioned to respect newness, whatever it costs them.