...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.

The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.

There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.

A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.

There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

There are aphorisms that, like airplanes, stay up only while they are in motion.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.