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

I despise my own nation most. Because I know it best. Because I still love it, suffering from Hope. For me, that's patrotism.

How could anything non-controversial be of intellectual interest to grown-ups?

One must be reasonable in one's demands on life. For myself, all that I ask is: (1) accurate information; (2) coherent knowledge; (3) deep understanding; (4) infinite loving wisdom; (5) no more kidney stones, please.

In the American Southwest, I began a lifelong love affair with a pile of rock.

It may be true that my desk here is really 'nothing but' a transient eddy of electrons in the flux of universal process. Nevertheless, I find that it continues to support my feet, my revolver, and my cigars all day long. What happens when my back is turned I don't know. Or much care. That's no concern of mine.

Of course I litter the public highway. Every chance I get. After all, it's not the beer cans that are ugly; it's the highway that is ugly.