I hate libraries for the way they put stickers on things. I don't approve of folding over pages, or of writing in books. God, forget scissors - that's beyond the pale.

I've just finished reading Reality Hunger and I'm lit up by it-astonished, intoxicated, ecstatic, overwhelmed. . . . It really is an urgent book: a piece of art-making itself, a sublime, exciting, outrageous, visionary volume.

Consensual reality is both fragile and elastic, and it heals like the skin of a bubble.

I want to write books that can be read a hundred years from now, and readers wouldn't be bogged down by irrelevant details.

I've been an advocate against the view of the writer as a partitioned genius hanging in conceptual space, or up on a mountain, a bringer of Promethean fire, some unique transmission that comes out of nowhere. I prefer the opposite view - that writers come from somewhere. They read things, and they think about them, and they incorporate other people's thoughts.

I don't have a lot of paper in my immediate work environment, except when I'm doing things like checking the godforsaken proofs.

All paths lead nowhere; choose one with heart...