“If you are still alive when you read this, close your eyes. I am under their lids, growing black.”

And upsidedown in the earth a dead man walks upon my soles when I walk.

The eyes are the amulets of the mind.

I’m just a potato that won’t quit. I’m a potato with some legs. Some have eyes, I’ve got legs.

Tamaki to Kyoya: I thought you wanted more because your eyes don’t show satisfaction now.

There is only one way in the world to be distinguished. Follow your instinct! Be yourself, and you’ll be somebody. Be one more blind follower of the blind, and you will have the oblivion you desire.

Writing is to descend like a miner to the depths of the mine with a lamp on your forehead, a light whose dubious brightness falsifies everything, whose wick is in permanent danger of explosion, whose blinking illumination in the coal dust exhausts and corrodes your eyes.

Fix your eye on the ball from the moment the pitcher holds it in his glove. Follow it as he throws to the plate and stay with it until the play is completed. Action takes place only where the ball goes.

They say that these are not the best of times, but they’re the only times I’ve ever known. And I believe there is a time for meditation in cathedrals of our own.

A good writer refuses to be socialized. He insists on his own version of things, his own consciousness. And by doing so he draws the reader’s eye from its usual groove into a new way of seeing things.