Magic things are fond of deceptions.

I am cheerful. I don't know if I'm happy. There is a difference, you know.

There is a similarity between juggling and composing on the typewriter. The trick is, when you spill something, make it look like a part of the act.

If you're honest, you sooner or later have to confront your values. Then you're forced to separate what is right from what is merely legal. This puts you metaphysically on the run. America is full of metaphysical outlaws.

Never be afraid to love, not even when there's a chance you're not being loved in return.

It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive. The fetus bailed out without a parachute. It landed in the sideline Astroturf, so upsetting the cheerleaders that for the remained of the afternoon their rahs were more like squeaks.

I am looking for the novelists whose writing is an extension of their intellect rather than an extension of their neurosis.