Such an ego simply forbade certain lines of thought.

When you write a book, you spend day after day scanning and identifying the trees. When you’re done, you have to step back and look at the forest.

The brain is a muscle that can move the world.

Maybe there's a whole other universe where a square moon rises in the sky, and the stars laugh in cold voices, and some of the triangles have four sides, and some have five, and some have five raised to the fifth power of sides. In this universe there might grow roses which sing. Everything leads to everything.

It hurts to imagine stuff. It can give you a headache. Probably doesn't hurt physically, but it hurts mentally. But the more that you can do it, the more you're able to get out of it. Everybody has that capacity, but I don't think everyone develops it.

I write to find out what I think.

If I have to spend time in purgatory before going to one place or the other, I guess I'll be all right as long as there's a lending library.