Defined in psychological terms, a fanatic is a man who consciously over-compensates a secret doubt.

Abused as we abuse it at present, dramatic art is in no sense cathartic; it is merely a form of emotional masturbation.

Perhaps it's good for one to suffer. Can an artist do anything if he's happy? Would he ever want to do anything? What is art, after all, but a protest against the horrible inclemency of life?

If we must play the theological game, let us never forget that it is a game. Religion, it seems to me, can survive only as a consciously accepted system of make-believe.

In any race between human numbers and natural resources, time is against us.

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

Such prosperity as we have known it up to the present is the consequence of rapidly spending the planet's irreplaceable capital.