I'd always assumed I was the central character in my own story, but now it occured to me I might in fact be only a minor character in someone else's.

Time's arrow, we are told, is a one-way thing. . . Memory's arrow, like the needle of a compass too close to a lodestone, spins in all directions.

There must be a lot of people in the world being wondered about by people who don't see them anymore.

Words have a life; without response they die.

More and more I'm aware that the permutations are not unlimited.

When you suffer an attack of nerves you're being attacked by the nervous system. What chance has a man got against a system?.

It's almost as if we're put here on earth to show how silly they aren't.