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

Life is to be lived, not controlled, and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.

Injustice wears ever the same harsh face wherever it shows itself.

Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the danger of losing a sense of who you are.

Having tried to give pattern to the chaos which lives within the pattern of your certainties, I must come out, I must emerge.

I suspect that all the agony that goes into writing is borne precisely because the writer longs for acceptance-but it must be acceptance on his own terms.

That ... is how the world moves: Not like an arrow, but a boomerang.