“What can be sadder than a discouraged artist dying not from his own commonplace maladies, but from the cancer of oblivion?”

“Although I am capable, through long dabbling in blue magic, of imitating any prose in the world (but singularly enough not verse—I am a miserable rhymester), I do not consider myself a true artist, save in one matter: I can do what only a true artist can do—pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation, wean myself abruptly from the habit of things, see the web of the world, and the warp and the weft of that web.”

“do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation”

“Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.”

“You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.”

“The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.”

“And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.”