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

A book has got smell. A new book smells great. An old book smells even better. An old book smells like ancient Egypt.

You're not like the others. I've seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon, last night. The others would never do that. The others would walk off and leave me talking. Or threaten me. No one has time any more for anyone else. You're one of the few who put up with me. That's why I think it's so strange you're a fireman, it just doesn't seem right for you, somehow.

Kids love me because I write stories that tell them about their capacity for evil. I'm one of the few writers who lets you cleanse yourself that way.

The critics are generally wrong, or they're fifteen, twenty years late. It's a great shame. They miss out on a lot.

The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour.

Writing can be described in two verbs: Throw up and clean up.