How real is any of the past, being every moment revalued to make the present possible.

There is nothing more distressing or tiresome than a writer standing in front of an audience and reading his work.

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

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.

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.

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