When I wake up, I wake to something worse. It’s the astonishment of being myself

I have used the philosophers' ideas for my own private literary purposes, but I don't think that I'm a thinker. I suppose that my thinking has been done for me by Berkeley, by Hume, by Schopenhauer, by Mauthner perhaps.

Art is very mysterious. I wonder if you can really do any damage to art. I think that when we're writing, something comes through or should come through, in spite of our theories. So theories are not really important.

The mind was dreaming. The world was its dream.

We have a very precise image - an image at times shameless - of what we have lost, but we are ignorant of what may follow or replace it.

This web of time--the strands of which approach one another, bifurcate, intersect or ignore eachother through the centuries--embrace every posibility.

Every novel is an ideal plane inserted into the realm of reality.