Life's meaning has always eluded me and I guess always will. But I love it just the same.

Write about it by day and dream about it by night.

I have occasionally had the exquisite thrill of putting my finger on a little capsule of truth, and heard it give the faint squeak of mortality under my pressure.

The world organization debates disarmament in one room and, in the next room, moves the knights and pawns that make national arms imperative.

I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.

Delay is natural to a writer. He is like a surfer-he bides his time, waits for the perfect wave on which to ride in. Delay is instinctive with him. He waits for the surge (of emotion? of strength? of courage?) that will carry him along.

In every queen there's a touch of floozy.