Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible.

Every man's memory is his private literature.

It's a little embarrassing that after 45 years of research & study, the best advice I can give people is to be a little kinder to each other.

Speed, it seems to me, provides the one genuinely modern pleasure.

The critics don't interest me because they're concerned with what's past and done, while I'm concerned with what comes next.

The creation by word-power of something out of nothing--what is that but magic? And, may I add, what is that but literature?

Applied Science is a conjuror, whose bottomless hat yields impartially the softest of Angora rabbits and the most petrifying of Medusas.