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.

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

If you want to make a million you don't have to understand money, what you have to understand is people's fears about money

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

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? the human shambles that follows it around. What's left of the man when the work's done but a shambles of apology.