Before going back to sleep I imagined (I saw) a plastic universe, changeable, full of wondrous chance, an elastic sky, a sun that suddenly is missing or remains fixed or changes its shape.

For me the thing that signals a great story is what we might call its autonomy, the fact that it detaches itself from its author like a soap bubble blown from a clay pipe.

Wordplay hides a key to reality that the dictionary tries in vain to lock inside every free word.

Nothing is more comical than seriousness understood as a virtue that has to precede all important literature

When one wants to write, one writes. If one is condemned to write, one writes.

All profound distraction opens certain doors. You have to allow yourself to be distracted when you are unable to concentrate.

What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?