But there are things you can't consult anybody about.

Alternatives, and particularly desirable alternatives, grow only on imaginary trees.

The flesh would shrink and go, the blood would dry, but no one believes in his mind of minds or heart of hearts that the pictures do stop.

I think that art has something to do with an arrest of attention in the midst of distraction.

...I am much better now at ambiguities.

A man is only as good as what he loves.

I blame myself for not often enough seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary. Somewhere in his journals, Dostoyevky remarks that a writer can begin anywhere, at the most commonplace thing, scratch around in it long enough, pry and dig away long enough, and lo!, soon he will hit upon the marvelous.