There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.

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

You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you’ve found life. I’m no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are ‘yours’ and which are ‘mine.’ It’s past sorting out.

Someday it'll all be done by machine. Information machines.

If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.

You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.

If there is something comforting - religious, if you want - about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.