I feel like something important has happened to meIs this possible?
Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a trail of recent footprints.
I think the story is the most ancient form of human entertainment.
Italians give their city sexes, and they all agree that the sex for a particular city is quite correct, but none of them can explain why. I love that. London’s middle-aged and male, respectably married but secretly gay.
Many children are natural fantasists, I think, perhaps because their imaginations have yet to be clobbered into submission by experience.
I’m not from a milieu where high-register language or philosophical ideas were welcome.
Writing is probably one-fifth coming up with the stuff, and four-fifths self-editing again and again and again.
Japanese food makes me feel particularly good.
The earth’s a door, if you press your ear against it.
Dreams are all I have ever truly owned.
What do I miss? Second-hand bookshops where I can find things I had no idea I wanted. AbeBooks helps, but it doesn’t have that smell.
As long as you can Houdini your way out of the Sisyphean constraints then originality happens.
Lunatics are writers whose works write them.
Whoever dies with the most stuff wins.
I have always preferred maps to books. They don’t answer you back.
Courage is the highest quality for a soldier, but technology is a fine substitute.
Under the Enrichment Laws, consumers have to spend a fixed quota of dollars each month, depending on their strata. Hoarding is an anti-corpocratic crime.
I am, emphatically. Mental illness triggered by xperimental error.
As for reading, I wish I had a magic door to a library where I could go in, read for days and days, and come back in the same minute I left. I’m still looking for the door.
Love’s pure free joy when it works, but when it goes bad you pay for the good hours at loan-shark prices.