I'm very militant, you know, in a quite way.

But your book is wrong, Mrs. Strunk, says George, when it tells you that Jim is the substitute I found for a real son, a real kid brother, a real husband, a real wife. Jim wasn't a substitute for anything. And there is no substitute for Jim, if you'll forgive my saying so, anywhere.

I'll bet Shakespeare compromised himself a lot; anybody who's in the entertainment industry does to some extent.

Horror is always aware of its cause; terror never is. That is precisely what makes terror terrifying.

Every writer has certain subjects that they write about again and again, and . . . most people's books are just variations on certain themes.

George smiles to himself, with entire self-satisfaction. Yes, I am crazy, he thinks. That is my secret; my strength.

The talk of pale, burning-eyed students, anarchists and utopians all, over tea and cigarettes in a locked room long past midnight, is next morning translated, with the literalness of utter innocence, into the throwing of the bomb, the shouting of the proud slogan, the dragging away of the young dreamer-doer, still smiling, to the dungeon and the firing squad.