All words are masks and the lovelier they are, the more they are meant to conceal.

God pity the poor novelist.

I had thought that words were instruments of precision. Now I know that they devour the world, leaving nothing in its place.

Stories, like conjuring tricks, are invented because history is inadequate for our dreams.

In the long dusks of summer we walked the suburban streets through scents of maple and cut grass, waiting for something to happen.

I’m pleased by anything in myself that strikes me as not myself.

Perhaps sound is only an insanity of silence, a mad gibber of empty space grown fearful of listening to itself and hearing nothing.

I saw that I was in danger of becoming ordinary, and I understood that from now on I would have to be vigilant.

His ambition was to insert his dreams into the world, and if they were the wrong dreams, then he would dream them in solitude.

We know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Ennui had more distractions far more amusing than the automatons of a watchmaker in Mühlenberg.

I think, that if the world were a bit more like ComicCon, it would be a better place.

Stupidity is a pretence to know unkowns, where as learning is a solution

Broken pencils still write beautiful songs.

The bulk of my fans are my age, and I'm aging at the same rate they are. That makes me relevant. They like hearing what I have to say. I work hard at it, but it's addicting, really.

The atheism and nihilism of my earlier years now seems shallow, and even a bit cocky.

Last night on the show I had Olympics fever. Unfortunately, it's getting worse. That's not good. I have to call my doctor if my torch burns for more than four hours.

Nobody kicks on being interrupted if it's by applause.

Being famous as a writer is like being famous in a village. It's not really any very heady fame.

Death is only a grim porter to let us into a stately palace.

The road comes to an end just when it ought to be getting somewhere. The passengers alight, shaken and weary, to begin, all over again, something else.