Poor brain! How helplessly it dissolves when willing eyes meet and the nose warms to those old jungle scents.

Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!

Look, we're all the same; a man is a fourteen-room house - in the bedroom he's asleep with his intelligent wife, in the living-room he's rolling around with some bare ass girl, in the library he's paying his taxes, in the yard he's raising tomatoes and in the cellar he's making a bomb to blow it all up.

Rise early. Write. Disappoint your sons. Read the newspaper. Go to bed early. Success.

Cleave to no faith when faith brings blood.

I think the job of the artist is to remind people of what they have chosen to forget.

. . usually, the biggest problems of adapting plays into screenplays is that they stick too close to the play, and I think film is a completely different medium. I think a novel is much closer to a film.