How can days and happenings and moments so good become so quickly ugly, and for no reason, for no real reason? Just - change. With nothing causing it.

How'd you like to gaze at a beer can throughout eternity? It might not be so bad. There'd be nothing to fear.

My major preoccupation is the question, 'What is reality ?' Many of my stories and novels deal with psychotic states or drug-induced states by which I can present the concept of a multiverse rather than a universe. Music and sociology are themes in my novels, also radical political trends; in particular I've written about fascism and my fear of it.

Unless we can psychologically accommodate change, we ourselves begin to die, inwardly. What I am saying is that objects, customs, habits, and ways of life must perish so that the authentic human being can live. And it is the authentic human being who matters most, the viable, elastic organism which can bounce back, absorb, and deal with the new.

For each person there is a sentence—a series of words—which has the power to destroy them.

What is possible and what is not possible is not objectively known but is, rather, a subjective belief on the part of the author and of the reader.

Giving me a a new idea is like handing a cretin a gun, but I do thank you anyhow, bang bang.