The sky was the colour of sad weddings.

Homeopathy seemed . . . both mathematical and poetic.

One of the paradoxes of writing is that when you write non-fiction everyone tries to prove that it's wrong, and when you publish fiction, everyone tries to see the truth in it.

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?

I think about stories and their logic and wonder if there can be any such thing as simply "there is a book.

I wonder at what point my life swerved to avoid that, and if that life would have been nicer than the one I've got.

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