One loses the capacity to grieve as a child grieves, or to rage as a child rages: hotly, despairingly, with tears of passion. One grows up, one becomes civilized, one learns one's manners, and consequently can no longer manage these two functions - sorrow and anger - adequately.

In real life, it is the hare who wins. Every time. Look around you. And in any case it is my contention that Aesop was writing for the tortoise market. Hares have no time to read. They are too busy winning the game.

What is interesting about self-analysis is that it leads nowhere - it is an art form in itself.

All good fortune is a gift of the gods, and you don't win the favor of the ancient gods by being good, but by being bold.

Writing novels preserves you in a state of innocence - a lot passes you by - simply because your attention is otherwise diverted.

Writing has freed me from the despair of living.

Problems of human behavior still continue to baffle us, but at least in the Library we have them properly filed.