A writer is a reader moved to emulation.

Somewhere in every intellectual is a dumb prick.

There are those who believe that clumsiness and truthfulness go together. But cumbersomeness does not necessarily imply a sincere heart.

Humankind struggles with collective powers for its freedom, the individual struggles with dehumanization for the possession of his soul.

The life of every citizen is becoming a business. This, it seems to me, is one of the worst interpretations of the meaning of human life history has ever seen. Man's life is not a business.

Hapiness can only be found if you can free yourself of all other distractions.

Whoever wants to reach a distant goal must take small steps.

What is art but a way of seeing?

No school without spectacular eccentrics and crazy hearts is worth attending.

In every community there is a class of people profoundly dangerous to the rest. I don't mean the criminals. For them we have punitive sanctions. I mean the leaders. Invariably the most dangerous people seek the power. While in the parlors of indignation the right-thinking citizen brings his heart to a boil. (p. 51).

New York makes one think of the collapse of civilization, about Sodom and Gomorrah, the end of the world. The end wouldn't come as a surprise here. Many people already bank on it.

There are evils, as someone has pointed out, that have the ability to survive identification and go on for ever -- money, for instance, or war.

A writer should be able to express himself easily, naturally, copiously in a form that frees his mind, his energies. Why should he hobble himself with formalities?

I am deeply moved when I write. I get turned on by it. I've never used any drugs for stimulation. I don't use words loosely. When I'm working and the right word comes, there is an answering resonance within me. There is also a hardness of intention that goes with it. There is no idleness in it.

You become a writer because you are convinced that you have a grip on reality of a certain distinctive kind. It belongs to you and to others who share such a recognition.

The late philosopher Morris R. Cohen of CCNY was asked by a student in the metaphysics course, Professor Cohen, how do I know that I exist? The keen old prof replied, And who is asking?

I want to tell you, don't marry suffering. Some people do. They get married to it, and sleep and eat together, just as husband and wife. If they go with joy they think it's adultery.

I am a phoenix who runs after arsonists.

Fiction, in the magazines, is presently going to be in the same position as poetry, namely filler. A respectable kind of filler.

But there are things you can't consult anybody about.