While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me - drawing on my skin - not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.

There's something final about saying you were married once. It's like saying you were dead once. It shuts them up.

Science and fiction both begin with similar questions: What if? Why? How does it all work? But they focus on different areas of life on earth.

There is something reassuring about the toilets. Bodily functions at least remain democratic. Everybody shits.

I suppose it's everyone's fate to be reduced to quaintness by those younger than themselves.

Imagine a famine. Now imagine a piece of bread. Both of these things are real but you happen to be in the same room with only one of them. Put yourself into a different room, that’s what the mind is for.

Don't let the bastards grind you down. I repeat this to myself but it conveys nothing. You might as well say, Don't let there be air; or Don't be. I suppose you could say that.