The three of them set out every morning on adventures of their own kind. Once, an elderly professor of literature, Mrs. Taggart's friend, saw them on top of a pile in a junk yard, dismantling the carcass of an automobile. He stopped, shook his head and said to Francisco, 'A young man of your position ought to spend his time in libraries, absorbing the culture of the world.' 'What do you think I'm doing?' asked Francisco.

Do not set out to write with your eyes on the box office. It can't be done.

She did not know the nature of her loneliness. The only words that named it were: This is not the world I expected.

She had learned, in the slums of her childhood, that honest people were never touchy about the matter of being trusted.

Never ask people. Not about your work. Don't you know what you want? How can you stand it, not to know?

If, before undertaking some action, you must obtain the permission of society-you are not free, whether such permission is granted to you or not. Only a slave acts on permission. A permission is not a right.

It is morally obscene to regard wealth as an anonymous, tribal product and to talk about 'redistributing' it.