I'm not trying to PREDICT the future. I'm just trying to PREVENT it.

All of my writing is God-given.

Do you understand now why books are hated and feared? Because they reveal the pores on the face of life. The comfortable people want only the faces of the full moon, wax, faces without pores, hairless, expressionless.

Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration. You should be having fun with it.

From the outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living.

Sometimes you just have to jump out the window and grow wings on the way down.

For these beings, fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. Such are the autumn people.