God is love, I said, but art's the possibility of forms, and shadows are the source of identity.

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms.

...and yet I am what they think I am.

Good fiction is made of that which is real, and reality is difficult to come by.

The clock ticked with empty urgency, as though trying to catch up with the time. In the street a siren howled.

So why do I write, torturing myself to put it down? Because in spite of myself I've learned some things. Without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled "file and forget," and I can neither file nor forget. Nor will certain ideas forget me; they keep filing away at my lethargy, my complacency. Why should I be the one to dream this nightmare?

Some people are your relatives but others are your ancestors, and you choose the ones you want to have as ancestors. You create yourself out of those values.