“She may know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as ‘pretty’ but he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him.”

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.”

He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.

Life sucks, but in a beautiful kind of way.

Beautiful creature its time to forgive yourself you were surviving.

Imagine how beautiful life would be spent if we spent it lost in moments rather than memories.

I discovered that if one looks a little closer at this beautiful world, there are always red ants underneath.

I look around and see all the beauty that is possible – all the beauty we can make. Together.

She was only a collection of flaws and she was beautiful.

If you say my eyes are beautiful, it’s because they are looking at you.

There’s a strange beauty in her. She shines like hell.