You've got to be able to look at your thoughts on paper and discover what a fool you were.

The Universe has shouted itself alive. We are one of the shouts.

The sun rose yellow as a lemon.The sky was round and blue.The birds looped clear water songs in the air.Will and Jim leaned from their windows.Nothing had changed.Except the look in Jim's eyes.Last night. . . said Will. Did or didn't it happen?

I don't think about what I do. I do it. That's Buddhism. I jump off the cliff and build my wings on the way down.

If you did not write every day, the poisons would accumulate and you would begin to die, or act crazy or both-you must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

Why go to a machine when you could go to a human being?

The only science fiction I have written is Fahrenheit 451. It's the art of the possible. Science fiction is the art of the possible. It could happen. It has happened.