Did I choose this life of illusion? Don't be mad. My bed was made, I just lied in it.

Fiction, maybe art in general, is a tentative, uncertain enterprise; it's not science, it's an exploration, but you never find much in the way of answers.

There is always the threat of tomorrow's treachery, or next year's treachery, or the treachery implicit in all the tomorrows beyond that.

I survived, but it's not a happy ending.

For Rat Kiley, I think, facts were formed by sensation, not the other way around, and when you listened to one of his stories, you'd find yourself performing rapid calculations in your head, subtracting superlatives, figuring the square root of an absolute and then multiplying by maybe.

A lie, sometimes, can be truer than the truth, which is why fiction gets written.

Fiction is the lie that helps us understand the truth.