There was a time when I could vote for economic justice, and I can’t anymore.
There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.
Every passing hour brings the Solar System forty three thousand miles closer to Globular Cluster M13 in Hercules – and still there are some misfits who insist that there is no such thing as progress.
There is a strong feeling in the Middle West that the artist is not pulling his own weight no matter how hard he may work, that the other people are doing the real stuff.
Music is, to me, proof of the existence of God.
Perhaps some people really are born unhappy. I surely hope not. Speaking for my sister and myself: We were born with the capacity and determination to be utterly happy all the time. Perhaps even in this we were freaks. Hi ho.
All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist.
George Bush and his gang imagine they are being political geniuses.
To the as-yet-unborn, to all innocent wisps of undifferentiated nothingness: Watch out for life.
Somebody gets into trouble, then gets out of it again. People love that story. They never get tired of it.
It is time for me to be dead for a little while – and then live again.
You have never seen greatness in a Presidency; I have. It was a rich kid who you would think had every reason to be a horse’s ass – Franklin Roosevelt. He was humane and wise and resourceful. He was called a traitor to his class.
You are better than you think. A-one, a-two a-three.
I still believe that peace and plenty and happiness can be worked out some way. I am a fool.
The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable.
The universe is a big place, perhaps the biggest.
I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.
Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?
Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.
Everything is nothing, with a twist.