As all historians know, the past is a great darkness, and filled with echoes. Voices may reach us from it; but what they say to us is imbued with the obscurity of the matrix out of which they come; and try as we may, we cannot always decipher them precisely in the clearer light of our day.

Love is the pursuit of shadows.

Thy only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die, John and Mary die, John and Mary die.

Science fiction, to me, has not only things that wouldn't happen, but other planets.

It's a feature of our age that if you write a work of fiction, everyone assumes that the people and events in it are disguised biography — but if you write your biography, it's equally assumed you're lying your head off.

This above all, to refuse to be a victim.

The objects I chose were designed to hold something, but I didn't fill them up. They remained empty. They were little symbolic shrines to thirst.