The river of truth is always splitting up into arms that reunite. Islanded between them, the inhabitants argue for a lifetime as to which is the mainstream.

Everything is a dangerous drug except reality which is unendurable.

The friendships which last are those wherein each friend respects the other's dignity to the point of not really wanting anything from him.

When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.

In a perfect union the man and woman are like a strung bow. Who is to say whether the string bends the bow, or the bow tightens the string?

The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.

Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice; journalism what will be grasped at once.