The only way for writers to meet is to share a quick peek over a common lamp-post.

That sinister Stonehenge of economic man, Rockefeller Center.

Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations.

When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.

Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.

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