For what did I know?

Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body.

— Mark Z. Danielewski - House of Leaves

I do not speak for others. So I do not speak for things which profess to speak for others. My art, however, speaks for me. It lights my way.

— Mark Z. Danielewski - House of Leaves

First, he reads a few lines by match light and then as the heat bites his fingertips he applies the flame to the page. Here then is one end: a final act of reading, a final act of consumption. And as the fire rapidly devours the paper, Navidson’s eyes frantically sweep down over the text, keeping just ahead of the necessary immolation, until as he reaches the last few words, flames lick around his hands, the fire retreats, dimming, its light suddenly spent, the book is gone leaving nothing behind but invisible traces already dismantled in the dark.

— Mark Z. Danielewski - House of Leaves

And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love.
There is only silence.

— Mark Z. Danielewski - House of Leaves

But mother is our first love affair. Her arms. Her eyes. Her breast. Her body.

— Jeanette Winterson - Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

Looking at women was not really sexual for me. … looking at women was a way of looking at myself and, I suppose, a way of loving myself.

— Jeanette Winterson - Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?