He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.

What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?

Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care.

She touched the edge of its voluptuous field, knowing it would be lovely beyond dreams simply to submit to it; that not gravity's pull, laws of ballistics, feral ravening, promised more delight. She tested it, shivering: I am meant to remember. Each clue that comes is supposed to have its own clarity, its fine chances for permanence. But then she wondered if the gemlike "clues" were only some kind of compensation. To make up for her having lost the direct, epileptic Word, the cry that might abolish the night.

It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.

I mean what they and their hired psychiatrists call delusional systems. Needless to say, ‘delusions’ are always officially defined. We do not have to worry about questions of real or unreal. They only talk out of expediency. It’s the system that matters. How the data arrange themselves inside it. Some are consistent, others fall apart.

Shall I project a world?