... my mind lay limp in an empty world.

I have often noticed that after I had bestowed on the characters of my novels some treasured item of my past, it would pine away in the artificial world where I had so abruptly placed it.

Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me.

Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.

The road now stretched across open country, and it occured to me - not by way of protest, not as a symbol, or anything like that, but merely as a novel experience - that since I had disregarded all laws of humanity, I might as well disregard the rules of traffic. So I crossed to the left side of the highway and checked the feeling, and the feeling was good. It was a pleasant diaphragmal melting, with elements of diffused tactility, all this enhanced by the thought that nothing could be nearer to the elimination of basic physical laws than deliberately driving on the wrong site of the road.

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust