No human endeavour can ever be wholly good... it must always have a cost.

We're all mad, the whole damned race. We're wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we're all mad and in solitary confinement.

There's a kinship among men who have sat by a dying fire and measured the worth of their life by it.

What could be safer than the bus center with its lamps and wheels?

Language fits over experience like a straight-jacket.

As far as the novel is concerned in my own country, I think it's in a pretty healthy state.

Even if you got rid of paper, you would still have story-tellers. In fact, you had the story-tellers before you had the paper.