I attempted briefly to consecrate myself in the public library, believing every crack in my soul could be chinked with a book.

That's how it is: some people are content to wait till you ask, while others jump right in with the whole story.

Sugar, it's no parade but you'll get down the street one way or another, so you'd just as well throw your shoulders back and pick up the pace.

Lies are infinite in number, and the truth so small and singular.

Don't wait for the muse. She has a lousy work ethic. Writers just write.

Life proceeds, it enrages. The untouched ones spend their luck without a thought, believing they deserve it.

Everyone should get dirt on his hands each day. Doctors, intellectuals. Politicians, most of all. How can we presume to uplift the life of the working man, if we don't respect his work?