The pervasive brutality in current fiction - the death, disease, dysfunction, depression, dismemberment, drug addiction, dementia, and dreary little dramas of domestic discord - is an obvious example of how language in exploitative, cynical or simply neurotic hands can add to the weariness, the darkness in the world.

I rather like the smell of absurdity in the morning.

I journey to the east, where I have been told, there are men who have taught death some manners.

When humans were young, they were pushed around in strollers. When they were old, they were pushed around in wheelchairs. In between, they were just pushed around.

Hard times and funky living can season the soul, true enough, but joy is the yeast that makes it rise.

The function of the artist is to provide what life does not.

Peeple of zee wurl, relax