Because there is no cosmic point to the life that each of us perceives on this distant bit of dust at galaxy's edge, all the more reason for us to maintain in proper balance what we have here. Because there is nothing else. Nothing. This is it. And quite enough, all in all.

To hear two American men congratulating each other on being heterosexual is one of the most chilling experiences - and unique to the United States. You don't hear two Italians sitting around complimenting each other because they actually like to go to bed with women. The American is hysterical about his manhood.

Poor John Simon - what a nightmare, to wake up in the morning and realize that you are John Simon.

The real writer learns nothing from life. He is more like an oyster or a sponge.

In large Victorian houses with many rooms and heavy doors, the occupants could be mysterious and exciting to one another in a way that those who live in rackety developments can never hope to be. Not even the lust of a Lord Byron could survive the fact of Levittown.

I have never been particularly impressed by the self centered musings of my fellow writers.

God, or what have you, will not be found at the far end of a syllogism, no matter how brilliantly phrased or conceived.