Miraculously, smoke curled out of his own mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes, as if his soul had been extinguished within his lungs at the very moment the sweet pumpkin gave up its incensed ghost.

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

In order for a thing to be horrible it has to suffer a change you can recognize.

So it was the hand that started it all . . . His hands had been infected, and soon it would be his arms . . . His hands were ravenous.

I don't have a computer. A computer's a typewriter. I already have a typewriter.

A single face turned upward toward all Time One flesh, one ecstasy, one peace.

I love writing, it's the center of my life. If you don't love what you do, you'd better find something else to love. Otherwise, you don't have a reason for living.