I sometimes feel I'm a sort of cult writer, rather than a mainstream writer, in that those who like my stuff like it a lot, but the appeal is not that broad.
The air itself was ebony, like the denial, the refutation, of the idea of light.
Time, the human dimension, which makes us everything we are.
Your heart becomes gangrenous in your body when you go against your talent.
So I am lonely, but not alone, like everybody else.
Insects are what neurosis would sound like, if neurosis could make a noise with its nose.