There is only one justification for having sinned, and that is to be glad of it.

Our literature, despite several false starts that promised much, is chiefly remarkable, now as always, for its respectable mediocrity.

The movies today are too rich to have any room for genuine artists. They produce a few passable craftsmen, but no artists. Can you imagine a Beethoven making $100, 000 a year?

School days, I believe, are the unhappiest in the whole span of human existence. They are full of dull, unintelligible tasks, new and unpleasant ordinances, brutal violations of common sense and common decency. It doesn't take a reasonably bright boy long to discover that most of what is rammed into him is nonsense, and that no one really cares very much whether he learns it or not.

What the meaning of human life may be I don't know: I incline to suspect that it has none.

There is always a sheet of paper. There is always a pen. There is always a way out.

To the best of my knowledge and belief, the average American newspaper, even of the so-called better sort, is not only quite as bad as Upton Sinclair says it is, but 10 times worse