I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head.

Hoping to fashion a mirror, the lover doth polish the face of his beloved until he produces a skull.

The throat: how strange, that there is not more erotic emphasis upon it. For here, through this compound pulsing pillar, our life makes its leap into spirit, and in the other direction gulps down what it needs of the material world.

We do survive every moment, after all, except the last one.

Vagueness and procrastination are ever a comfort to the frail in spirit.

The essential self is innocent, and when it tastes its own innocence knows that it lives for ever.

I write about, more or less, everything I can think of, that is I stretch my imagination as far as it'll go. I am kind of stuck in the middle as far as my life goes, and hence my imagination tends to zero in on things which are indeed in the middle. That is, I don't write about the very rich, who I scarcely know, or the very poor who I don't know very well either.