If you were a fully realized person-whatever the hell that would be-you wouldn't fool around writing books.

I should like to suggest that at least on the face of it a stroke by stroke story of a copulation is exactly as absurd as a chew by chew account of the consumption of a chicken's wing.

It’s not the word made flesh we want in writing, in poetry and fiction, but the flesh made word

If death itself were to die, would it have a ghost, and would the ghost of death visit the dead in the guise of someone alive, if only to fright them from any temptation to return?

If there were genders to genres, fiction would be unquestionably feminine.

Words are the supreme objects. They are minded things.

The world of conceptualized ideas is quite wonderful, even when it's - like Aristotle's Physics - an outmoded book. The physics is not true. But the reasoning is dazzling.