The compensation for a death sentence is the knowledge of the exact hour when one is to die. A great luxury, but one that is well earned.

Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.

I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.

Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.

To begin with, let us take the following motto...Literature is Love. Now we can continue.

We think not in words but in shadows of words.