Truman Capote has made lying an art. A minor art.

There is hardly an American male of my generation who has not at one time or another tried to master the victory cry of the great ape as it issued from the androgynous chest of Johnny Weissmuller, to the accompaniment of thousands of arms and legs snapping during attempts to swing from tree to tree in the backyards of the Republic.

One is sorry one could not have taken both branches of the road. But we were not allotted multiple selves.

I am glad my life is coming to an end. To think that it might last another five hundred years, now that would be terrible, in my case.

The hatred Americans have for their own government is pathological, if understandable. At one level it is simply thwarted greed: since our religion is making a buck, giving a part of that buck to any government is an act against nature.

A talent for drama is not a talent for writing, but is ability to articulate human relationships.

I suppose my liking for Italy is partly atavism, my family are of the old Roman stock. They came from the Alps north of Venice.