I erased the thought from my mind, but I couldn't undo the fact that I'd had the thought in the first place.

I'm a great believer in gathering together all your obsessions and seeing if you can make a novel out of them.

For other people, love is like some rare orchid that can only grow in one place under a certain set of conditions. For me it's like bindweed. It grows with no encouragement at all, under any conditions, and just strangles everything else.

It's not even a question of whether the universe is meaningful or meaningless. It's in what way could it be meaningful, or in what way, if it was meaningful, could that be even more meaningless than normal meaninglessness?

What folly takes light through ether to each eye from every horizon.

The sky was the colour of sad weddings.

If something wants to be a story, it will be.