Look at it this way: Psychoanalysis is a permanent fad.
Words fashioned with somewhat over precise diction are like shapes turned out by a cookie cutter.
The trouble with treating people as equals is that the first thing you know they may be doing the same thing to you.
The writer can only explore the inner space of his characters by perceptively navigating his own.
Man is vile, I know, but people are wonderful.
The tuba is certainly the most intestinal of instruments, the very lower bowel of music.
I tried to write worse but it was no good; my generalizations came out as before, each more exquisite than the last. I grew discouraged.
Love’s blindness consists oftener in seeing what is not there than in seeing what is.
The rich aren’t like us, they pay less taxes.
Celibacy is the worst form of self-abuse.
We know the human brain is a device to keep the ears from grating on one another.
We turned on one another deep, drowned gazes, and exchanged a kiss that reduced my bones to rubber and my brain to gruel.
When I can no longer bear to think of the victims of broken homes, I begin to think of the victims of intact ones.
A politician is a man who can be verbose in fewer words than anyone else.
I made a tentative conclusion. It seemed from all of this that uppermost among human joys is the negative one of restoration: not going to the stars, but learning that one may stay where one is.
Before the mind snaps, or the heart breaks, it gather itself like a clock about to strike. It might even be said one pulls himself together to disintegrate.
What people believe is a measure of what they suffer.
Human nature is pretty shabby stuff, as you may know from introspection.
My father hated radio and could not wait for television to be invented so he could hate that too.
Confession is good for the soul only in the sense that a tweed coat is good for dandruff – it is a palliative rather than a remedy.