Every writer hopes or boldly assumes that his life is in some sense exemplary, that the particular will turn out to be universal.

Only in art will the lion lie down with the lamb, and the rose grow without thorn.

The children of the nuclear age, I think, were weakened in their capacity to love. Hard to love, when you're bracing yourself for impact. Hard to love, when the loved one, and the lover, might at any instant become blood and flames, along with everybody else.

Sometimes I feel that life is passing me by, not slowly either, but with ropes of steam and spark - spattered wheels and a hoarse roar of power or terror. It's passing, yet I'm the one who's doing all the moving.

Addictions do come in handy sometimes: at least you have to get out of bed for them.

You can't be up the reader's ass, as many a writer I think is - cute as hell, ingratiating as hell. But that's not loving the reader in the right way. That's toadying to the reader.

More will mean worse.