Behind the newspaper Julian was withdrawing into the inner compartment of his mind where he spent most of his time. This was a kind of mental bubble in which he established himself when he could not bear to be a part of what was going on around him. From it he could see out and judge but in it he was safe from any kind of penetration from without. It was the only place where he felt free of the general idiocy of his fellows. His mother had never entered it but from it he could see her with absolute clarity.

The only way, I think, to learn to write short stories is to write them, and then try to discover what you have done.

Policy and politics generally go contrary to principle.

You can't clobber any reader while he's looking. You divert his attention, then you clobber him and he never knows what hit him.

She felt that she would have to be much more than just a doctor or an engineer. She would have to be a saint.

I don’t want any of this artificial superficial feeling stimulated by the choir. Today I have proved myself a glutton—​for Scotch oatmeal cookies and erotic thought. There is nothing left to say of me.

Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days.