Best, perhaps to keep one's nickels forever in one's pockets, to savor delicious possibility over mundane experience.

It is like reading two books, one with each eye, and understanding them both.

Be the time he finds his way out of the chamber and the planetarium, he has become me.

I have already lost the knowledge of the word whose sound has the shape of a soul. But perhaps it's not too late. Come with me. Hurry now. We still have a chance to be young.

Storytelling--that's not the future. The future, I'm afraid, is flashes and impulses. It's mode up of moments and fragments, and stories won't survive.

And just as he said of me, the thing that his heart desired was not the thing that he professed to want.

Think of it. Going to sleep and waking up later in a science fiction future. It'll be fantastic. The shock and the wonder of it.

In the moment when he died at my hand he had his own heart's desire—not the actual future, but a hope for the best possible future, one that he could not himself imagine.

As an act of goodwill you must sacrifice all the futures you might have for the one that he designs for you.

I truly do not know, and that unnameable feeling that comes with not knowing: it must be worse than grief. It must.

Love, no matter how high or low its form, must be requited, or the lover suffers.

As for Gussie Finknottle, many an experienced undertaker would have been deceived by his appearance and started embalming on sight.

A lot of my work is like picking potatoes; you have to get into the rhythm of it. It is different than patience. It is not thinking. It is working with the rhythm.

To blaspheme the earth is now the most dreadful sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth!

When I see a 9/11 victim family on television, or whatever, I'm just like, 'Oh shut up' I'm so sick of them because they're always complaining.

I've never directed, but it must be humbling.

I'm not writing fairy tales or object lessons.

I know he's a good general, but is he lucky?

I had so many ideas that I wanted to get out at once that it led to simple little drawings and paintings.

God comes to you disguised as your life.

Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.