I must admit that the existence of Disneyland (which I know is real) proves that we are not living in Judaea in 50 AD. . . . Saint Paul would never go near Disneyland. Only children, tourists, and visiting Soviet high officials ever go to Disneyland. Saints do not.

There was a beauty in the trash of the alleys which I had never noticed before; my vision seemed sharpened, rather than impaired. As I walked along it seemed to me that the flattened beer cans and papers and weeds and junk mail had been arranged by the wind into patterns; these patterns, when I scrutinized them, lay distributed so as to comprise a visual language.

But an artist, he realized. Or rather so-called artist. Bohemian. That's closer to it. The artistic life without the talent.

The will to believe chases out the rational mind, whenever and wherever the two come into conflict.

In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.

When two people dream the same dream, it ceases to be an illusion.

If you think this Universe is bad, you should see some of the others.