Art doesn't have to do anything. It just has to be there for the fierce pleasure we take in doing it.

Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.

I am a cigarette with a body attached to it

The smooth stones you pick up and examine under the moon's light have been made blue from the sea. Next morning when you pull them from your trouser pocket, they are still blue.

We knew our days were numbered. We had fouled up our lives and we were getting ready for a shake-up.

When a reader finishes a wonderful story and lays it aside, he should have to pause for a minute and collect himself.