Man's deliberate destruction of his own habitat -- planet Earth -- could serve as a mighty theme for a mighty book worthy of a modern Melville or Tolstoy. But our best fictioneers confine themselves to domestic drama -- soap opera with literary trimmings.

Belief in the supernatural reflects a failure of the imagination.

The missionaries go forth to Christianize the savages - as if the savages weren't dangerous enough already.

J. Edgar Hoover, J. Bracken Lee, J. Parnell Thomas, J. Paul Getty -- you can always tell a shithead by that initial initial.

I would prefer to write about everything; what else is there? But one must be selective.

Our modern industrial economy takes a mountain covered with trees, lakes, running streams and transforms it into a mountain of junk, garbage, slime pits, and debris.

If there's anything I hate, it's the vibraphone. And the cha-cha-cha. And Latin rhythms generally.