But the body fails us and the mirror knows, and we no longer insist that the gray hush be carried off its surface by the cloth, for we have run to fat, and wrinkles encircle the eyes and notch the neck where the skin wattles, and the flesh of the arms hangs loose like an overlarge sleeve, veins thicken like ropes and empurple the body as though they had been drawn there by a pen, freckles darken, liver spots appear, the hairah, the hair is exhausted and gray and lusterless, in weary rolls like cornered lint.

Freud thought that a psychosis was a waking dream, and that poets were daydreamers too, but I wonder if the reverse is not as often true, and that madness is a fiction lived in like a rented house

Sports, politics, and religion are the three passions of the badly educated.

I usually have poor to absent relations with editors because they have a habit of desiring changes and I resist changes.

Fiction becomes visual by becoming verbal

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

Getting even is one reason for writing.