I’m nothing. Nothing at all without writing. Without truth, my truth, the only truth I know, it’s all a gambol in the pasture without rhythm or sense.
The ability to dream is all I have to give. That is my responsibility; that is my burden. And even I grow tired.
People don’t die from the old diseases any more. They die from new ones, but that’s Progress, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Because the chief commodity a writer has to sell is his courage. And if he has none, he is more than a coward. He is a sellout and a fink and a heretic, because writing is a holy chore.
When belief in a god dies, the god dies.
I have no mouth. And I must scream.
Get a day job, make your money from that, and write to please yourself.
For the first time we have a weapon that nobody has used for thirty years. This gives me great hope for the human race.
I think love and sex are separate and only vaguely similar. Like the word bear and the word bare. You can get in trouble mistaking one for the other.
I see all. I hear all. I know all. And I spend a great deal of time in the bathroom.
The real name for ‘science’ is magic.
The world is turning into a cesspool of imbeciles.
To say more, is to say less.
I was the green monkey, the pariah. And I had no friends. Not just a few friends, or one good friend, or grudging acceptance by other misfits and outcasts. I was alone. All stinking alone, without even an imaginary playmate.
They change scapegoats at the networks more regularly than some people change socks.
Thus, from admiration of one wise and innocent child, and from a misheard remark, the process that not even Aristotle could codify was triggered. Where do you get your ideas? I purposely mishear things.
Writing is a holy chore.
There in the midst of the Amazon Jungle, Simon Haskell has cobbled up for himself a replica of an Art Deco salon.
I hate being wrong, but I love it when I’m set straight.
When you’re a writer, you have to have the passion and the skill and the craft. It’s not just enough to have the passion. You’ve gotta have all three.