life has a way of forcing decisions on those who vacillate.

Once again, I was confused. It felt like bits of reality and unreality were randomly changing places.

You know the real world, this so-called real world, is just something you put up with. Like everybody else. I'm in my element when I am a little bit out of this world. Then I'm in the real world – I'm on the beam. Because when I'm falling, I'm doing all right. When I'm slipping, I say: he, this is interesting. It's when I'm standing upright that bothers me.

If, then, my awareness of the past and future makes me less aware of the present, I must begin to wonder whether I am actually living in the real world.

I know I walk in and out of several worlds every day.

If I feel it, I feel it; if I don't, I don't; if it ain't really real, then I probably won't.

I have found that — just as in real life — imagination sometimes has to stand in for experience.

But sometimes reality chooses not to conform to our preferences.

I just want to model what’s going on in the real world

I'm inconsistent, even to myself.

I felt a kind of vertigo, as if I were merely plunging from one world to another, and in each I arrived shortly after the end of the world had taken place.

I've always had this funny feeling about reality. It just seems very feeble to me sometimes. It doesn't seem to have the substantiality that it's suppose to have.

I was constantly trying to find myself in the world around me

Sometimes I don't know whether I'm real or whether I'm a character in one of my novels.