People resent articulacy, as if articulacy were a form of vice.

At last, after innumerable glamorous and frightful years, mankind approaches a war which is totally predictable from beginning to end.

The television critic, whatever his pretensions, does not labour in the same vineyard as those he criticizes; his grapes are all sour.

Talk isn't work. Work is when you have pages in the evening that you didn't have in the morning.

Truth maybe stranger than fiction, but fiction is truer.

Words, isolated in the velvet of radio, took on a jeweled particularity. Television has quite the opposite effect: words are drowned in the visual soup in which they are obliged to be served.

The great networks are there to prove that ideas can be canned like spaghetti. If everything ends up by tasting like everything else, is that not the evidence that it has been properly cooked?