One of the liberating effects of science fiction when I was a teenager was precisely its ability to tune me into all sorts of strange data and make me realize that I wasn’t as totally isolated in perceiving the world as being monstrous and crazy.
When you want to know how things really work, study them when they’re coming apart.
She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.
The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.
What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?
I am an invisible man. No I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allen Poe: Nor am I one of your Hollywood movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids - and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, simply because people refuse to see me.
Do you know what I would answer to someone who asked me for a description of myself, in a hurry? This:
For indeed my life is a perpetual question mark…
Then I become an exclamatory person, clapping my hands to the immense surprises the world holds for me…
Books say: She did this because. Life says: She did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren’t. I’m not surprised some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own.
One of the advantages of being disorganized is that one is always having surprising discoveries.
The mind is its own beautiful prisoner…
My mouth is a fire escape.
The words coming out
don’t care that they are naked.
There is something burning in there.