It Has Been Said Of Dreams That

I'm Tired And I Want To Rest; I Want To Get Out Of This And Go Lie Down Somewhere, Off Where It's Dark And No One Speaks. Forever.

Can We Consider The Universe Real, And If So, In What Way?

Maybe I'll Go Where I Can See Stars, He Said To Himself As The Car Gained Velocity And Altitude; It Headed Away From San Francisco, Toward The Uninhabited Desolation To The North. To The Place Where No Living Thing Would Go. Not Unless It Felt That The End Had Come.

How Much Of What We Call 'reality' Is Actually Out There Or Rather Within Our Own Head?

I Think That, Like In My Writing, Reality Is Always A Soap Bubble, Silly Putty Thing Anyway. In The Universe People Are In, People Put Their Hands Through The Walls, And It Turns Out They're Living In Another Century Entirely. I Often Have The Feeling — And It Does Show Up In My Books — That This Is All Just A Stage.