I'm dyslexic. If you can reconcile yourself to not being able to burn through books, which you shouldn't any way, you can slow the whole process down. Then, because of my disability, there is more for me in imaginative literature than there is for other people.

I know you can dream your way through an otherwise fine life, and never wake up, which is what I almost did.

The pace of life feels morally dangerous to me.

And I think that in myself (and perhaps evident in what I write) fear of loss and the corresponding instinct to protect myself against loss are potent forces.

It is no loss to mankind when one writer decides to call it a day. When a tree falls in the forest, who cares but the monkeys?

Life's passed along to us empty. We have to make up the happiness part.

Love isn’t a thing, after all, but an endless series of single acts.