“Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.”

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

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.”

The point is to know how to use the colours, the choice of which is, when all’s said and done, a matter of habit.

Optimist – A proponent of the doctrine that black is white.

Eloquence, n. The art of orally persuading fools that white is the color that it appears to be. It includes the gift of making any color appear white.

Art is the colors and textures of your imagination.

I’m the guy who reputedly denies that people experience colors or pains, and thinks that thermostats think — just ask my critics.

I feel in color.

It’s ignorant to think you know everything about a person. There’s many different sides to everybodys personality and there’s just different colours to a personality.

I feel like Im able to relate to all races of people because when you learn to tap into the raw emotion of a person, that goes past color.