I still maintain that an ordinary human being has the right to be horrified by a mangled body seen on an afternoon walk.

The spaces between the perceiver and the thing perceived can [...] be closed with a shout of recognition.

Everyone who’s born has come from the sea. Your mother’s womb is just a sea in small. And birds come of seas on eggs. Horses lie in the sea before they’re born. The placenta is the sea. Your blood is the sea continued in your veins. We are the ocean — walking on the land.

Literature was intended to be dangerous. Art was meant to be dangerous. Ideas were nothing if they were not dangerous.

All of this happened a long time ago. But not so long ago that everyone who played a part in it is dead. Some can still be met in dark old rooms with nurses in attendance.

Complaints about reality are immature.

There are no beginnings, not even to stories. There are only places where you make an entrance into someone else's life and either stay or turn and go away.