Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.

Only one letter divides the comic from the cosmic.

A creative writer must study carefully the works of his rivals, including the Almighty. He must possess the inborn capacity not only of recombining but of re-creating the given world. In order to do this adequately, avoiding duplication of labor, the artist should know the given world.

Turning one's novel into a movie script is rather like making a series of sketches for a painting that has long ago been finished and framed.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By the false azure in the windowpane; I was the smudge of ashen fluff -and I Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky. And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate: Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass Hang all the furniture above the grass, And how delightful when a fall of snow Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so As to make chair and bed exactly stand Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!

I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.