To write is a humiliation.

Man is at the nadir of his stregth when the Earth, the seas, the mountains are not in him, for without them his soul is unsourced, and he has no images by which to abide.

Writing is conscience, scruple, and the farming of our ancestors.

Intellectual sodomy, which comes from the refusal to be simple about plain matters, is as gross and abundant today as sexual perversion and they are nowise different from one another.

Utility is our national shibboleth: the savior of the American businessman is fact and his uterine half-brother, statistics.

We are ruled by chance but never have enough patience to accept its despotism.

We can only write well about our sins because it is too difficult to recall a virtuous act or even whether it was the result of good or evil motives.