As we grow older, the memories of early life brighten, those of maturity and senescence grow dim and confused.

As we are all solipsists, and all die, the world dies with us. Only very minor literature aims at apocalypse.

All human life is here, but the Holy Ghost seems to be somewhere else.

A man can write one book that can be great, but this doesn't make him a great writer-just the writer of a great book. . . I think a writer has to extend very widely, as well as plunge very deep, to be a great novelist.

We only need to wear shoes because the British built roads which hurt our feet.

Life is a wretched gray Saturday, but it has to be lived through.

Where do I come into all of this? Am I just some animal or dog?' And that started them off govoreeting real loud and throwing slovos at me. So I creeched louder still, creeching: 'Am I just to be like a clockwork orange?