The sneakiest form of literary subtlety, in a corrupt society, is to speak the plain truth. The critics will not understand you; the public will not believe you; your fellow writers will shake their heads. Laughter, praise, honors, money, and the love of beautiful girls will be your only reward.

In all of nature, there is no sound more pleasing than that of a hungry animal at its feed. Unless you are the food.

Recorded history is largely an account of the crimes and disasters committed by banal little men at the levers of imperial machines.

There's nothing so obscene and depressing as an American Christmas.

Critics are like ticks on a dog or tits on a motor: ornamental but dysfunctional.

Belief? What do I believe in? I believe in sun. In rock. In the dogma of the sun and the doctrine of the rock. I believe in blood, fire, woman, rivers, eagles, storm, drums, flutes, banjos, and broom-tailed horses.

The ready availability of suicide, like sex and alcohol, is one of life's basic consolations.