I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.
Sooner or later, all games become serious.
Unhappy parents teach you a lesson that lasts a lifetime.
A widespread taste for pornography means that nature is alerting us to some threat of extinction.
In a completely sane world, madness is the only freedom.
Everything is becoming science fiction. From the margins of an almost invisible literature has sprung the intact reality of the 20th century.
Sooner or later, everything turns into television.
Fiction is a branch of neurology.
If I don’t write, I begin to feel unsettled and uneasy, as I gather people do who are not allowed to dream.
Science and technology multiply around us. To an increasing extent they dictate the languages in which we speak and think. Either we use those languages, or we remain mute.
I admired anyone who could unsettle people.
They thrived on the rapid turnover of acquaintances, the lack of involvement with others, and the total self-sufficiency of lives which, needing nothing, were never dissapointed.
Art exists because reality is neither real nor significant.