Imagination, of course, can open any door – turn the key and let terror walk right in.
I’ll never get used to anything. Anybody that does they might as well be dead.
Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.
And in this moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came.
I prefer to underwrite. Simple, clear as a country creek.
Before birth; yes, what time was it then? A time like now, and when they were dead, it would be still like now: these trees, that sky, this earth, those acorn seeds, sun and wind, all the same, while they, with dust-turned hearts, change only.
But it’s Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays.
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.
I can see every monster as they come in.
I like to talk on TV about those things that aren’t worth writing about.
That’s not writing, that’s typing.
Just remember: If one bird carried every grain of sand, grain by grain, across the ocean, by the time he got them all on the other side, that would only be the beginning of eternity.
Friendship is a pretty full-time occupation if you really are friendly with somebody. You can’t have too many friends because then you’re just not really friends.
Love is a chain of love as nature is a chain of life.
Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.
It is the want to know the end that makes us believe in God, or witchcraft, believe, at least, in something.
Are the dead as lonesome as the living?
Hot weather opens the skull of a city, exposing its white brain, and its heart of nerves, which sizzle like the wires inside a lightbulb. And there exudes a sour extra-human smell that makes the very stone seem flesh-alive, webbed and pulsing.
Fame is only good for one thing – they will cash your check in a small town.
I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.