“What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?”

A screaming comes across the sky.

There was no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance.

They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.

What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?

Get too conceptual, too cute and remote, and your characters die on the page.

Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.

The reality is in this head. Mine. I’m the projector at the planetarium, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, and sometimes other orifices also.

Real flight and dreams of flight go together. Both are part of the same movement. Not A before B, but all together.

You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you’ve found life. I’m no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are ‘yours’ and which are ‘mine.’ It’s past sorting out.

Like so many named places in California it was less an identifiable city than a grouping of concepts–census tracts, special purpose bond-issue districts, shopping nuclei, all overlaid with access roads to its own freeway.

Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.

Let the peace of this day be here tomorrow when I wake up.

If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.

Shall I project a world?

There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.

My belief is that “recluse” is a code word generated by journalists; meaning, “doesn’t like to talk to reporters.”