I have committed many sins in my life. This precise sin-the sin against poets-is without absolution.

My memories pale as I prevail upon them again and again. They become more and more ghostly. I fear nothing so much as losing them altogether and having only my blank endless mind to live in.

The images of things are not the things in themselves.

I've known several cases of writers who decide to write about something and they research the hell out of it and when they're ready to write, they can't move because they are so burdened. I start writing. Whatever I need somehow comes to hand.

I am often asked the question How can the masses permit themselves to be exploited by the few. The answer is By being persuaded to identify with them.

Someone dying asks if there is life after death. Yes, comes the answer, only not yours.

I try to avoid experience if I can. Most experience is bad.