Nothing is whole, not for too damned long. The world is half night.
The path to wisdom leads downward, and anyone who decides to take it had better buckle on armor, remember to bring a sword, and get used to the idea that when and if he gets back everyone he talks to is going to think he’s a phony.
I’m being haunted,” she blurted out. “My dear,” he cooed. “Turn yourself into a tourist attraction and charge admission.
Intellectual labor is a common technique for the avoidance of thinking.
Every writer must acknowledge and be able to handle the unalterable fact that he has, in effect, given himself a life sentence in solitary confinement.
…nobody can protect anybody else from vileness. Or from pain. All you can do is not let it break you in half and keep on going until you get to the other side.
He did not recognize himself either. He was a totally new being, bald, covered with grease and blood, pink and blue eyed: he was his own baby…He was a great fat chuckling baby, and he shat and peed in his filthy trousers and kept driving.
I don’t shy from writing about incredibly unpleasant, distressing things. And I get a kick out of it I confess. I like doing that.
I have been sometimes way too attracted by my own villains because in a way they seem to hold the secret to the heart of the narrative.
I generally wade in blind and trust to fate and instinct to see me through.