For seven days she lay in bed looking sullenly at the ceiling as though resenting the death she had cultivated for so many years. Like some people who cannot vomit despite horrible nausea, she lay there unable to die, resisting death as she had resisted life, frozen with resentment of process and change.

In this world, [of Flash and Filigree] nothing is true, and censure or outrage is simply irrelevant.

Whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction.

I see no reason why the artistic world can't absolutely merge with Madison Avenue. Pop art is a move in that direction. Why can't we have advertisements with beautiful words and beautiful images?

Panic is the sudden realization that everything around you is alive.

Writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. There are things I wish I could forget.

Time: a landing field! Death needs time like a junkie needs junk.