As far as I'm concerned, the entire reason for becoming a writer is not having to get up in the morning.

I was always so relieved that anyone wants to publish anything I've written.

I wonder if I shall ever see her again, and I realize that I scarcely care. I can feel the sheets beneath me, and the cold air on my chest. I feel fine. I feel absolutely fine. I feel nothing at all.

This is not a place, after all. It is BETWEEN places. This is NOWHERE. A brief thought: I could stay here, abandon my quest, hang forever in the void, safe and cold and alone.

The sky had never seemed so sky; the world had never seemed so world.

Be boring, knowing everything. You have to give all that stuff up if you're going to muck about here.

There are people who think that things that happen in fiction do not really happen. These people are wrong.