A good writer must have more than vin rosé in his veins, use more than Chablis for ink.

Those art lovers who pride themselves mostly on *taste* usually possess no other talent.

Don't talk to me about other worlds, separate realities, lost continents or invisible realms -- I know where I belong. Heaven is home. Utopia is here. Nirvana is now.

Civilization, like an airplane in flight, survives only as it keeps going forward.

The most striking thing about the rich is the gracious democracy of their manners -- and the crude vulgarity of their way of life.

The feminist notion that the whole of human history has been nothing but a vast intricate conspiracy by men to enslave their wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters presents us with an intellectual neurosis for which we do not yet have a name.

There's another disadvantage to the use of the flashlight: like many other mechanical gadgets it tends to separate a man from the world around him. If I switch it on my eyes adapt to it and I can see only the small pool of light it makes in front of me; I am isolated. Leaving the flashlight in my pocket where it belongs, I remain a part of the environment I walk through and my vision though limited has no sharp or definite boundary.