James Joyce buried himself in his great work. _Finnegan's Wake_ is his monument and his tombstone. A dead end.

Jane Austen: Getting into her books is like getting in bed with a cadaver. Something vital is lacking; namely, life.

Proust again: One can only wish that a man with such powers of total recall had led a less tedious life, moved among somewhat livelier circles.

Quantum mechanics provides us with an approximate, plausible, conjectural explanation of what actually is, or was, or may be taking place inside a cyclotron during a dark night in February.

Democracy -- rule by the people -- sounds like a fine thing; we should try it sometime in America.

The one great gift to humankind from our nuclear physicists has been the nuclear bomb. How can we ever thank them?

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