There are two kinds of people I cannot abide: bigots and any well-organized ethnic group.

I've never yet read a review of one of my own books that I couldn't have written much better myself.

Appearance versus reality? Appearance is reality, God damn it!

As between the skulking and furtive poacher, who hunts for the sake of meat, and the honest gentleman shooter, who kills for the pleasure of sport, I find the former a higher type of humanity.

Most of what we call the classics of world literature suggest artifacts in a wax museum. We have to hire and pay professors to get them read and talked about.

Whenever I read _Time_ or _Newsweek_ or such magazines, I wash my hands afterward. But how to wash off the small but odious stain such reading leaves on the mind?

Readers, not critics, are the people who determine a book's eventual fate.