A critic is to an author as a fungus to an oak.

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.

My notion of a great novel is something like a five-hundred-page shaggy-dog story, with only the punch line omitted.

The sexual revolution transformed the American West: Now even cowboys can get laid.

I understand and sympathize with the reasonable needs of a reasonable number of people on a finite continent. All life depends upon other life. But what is happening today, in North America, is not rational use but irrational massacre. Man the Pest, multiplied to the swarming stage, is attacking the remaining forests like a plague of locusts on a field of grain.

If industrial man continues to multiply his numbers and expand his operations he will succeed in his apparent intention, to seal himself off from the natural and isolate himself within a synthetic prison of his own making.

In both metaphysics and art, honesty is the best policy. Keep it clean.