The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.

The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied to everything, more or less.

I'd obviously never heard of the group, but my ignorance in literary matters is to blame for that (every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me).

If life is misery, why do we endure it?

When people read his books they have an uncontrollable desire to hang the author in the town square. I can’t think of a higher honor for a writer.

Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.

Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.