He walked out into the cold morning asking himself this heretical question: Can you start measuring a minute at any instant you wish?

We're comic. We're all comics. We live in a comic time. And the worse it gets the more comic we are.

Tragedy was foresworn, in ritual denial of the ripe knowledge that we are drawing away from one another, that we share only one thing, share the fear of belonging to another, or to others, or to God; love or money, tender equated in advertising and the world, where only money is currency, and under dead trees and brittle ornaments prehensile hands exchange forgeries of what the heart dare not surrender.

What’s any artist, but the dregs of his work?

I see the player piano as the grandfather of the computer, the ancestor of the entire nightmare we live in, the birth of the binary world where there is no option other than yes or no and where there is no refuge.

Justice? You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.

...mementos of this world, in which the things worth being were so easily exchanged for the things worth having.