I’m pleased by anything in myself that strikes me as not myself.

Perhaps sound is only an insanity of silence, a mad gibber of empty space grown fearful of listening to itself and hearing nothing.

God pity the poor novelist.

We know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I saw that I was in danger of becoming ordinary, and I understood that from now on I would have to be vigilant.

His ambition was to insert his dreams into the world, and if they were the wrong dreams, then he would dream them in solitude.

In the long dusks of summer we walked the suburban streets through scents of maple and cut grass, waiting for something to happen.