I could come back to America..to die..but never, never to live.

The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be . . .

Don't pass it by - the immediate, the real, the ours, the yours, the novelist's that it waits for.

There are two kinds of taste, the taste for emotions of surprise and the taste for emotions of recognition.

He is the same old sausage, fizzing and sputtering in his own grease.

Americans will eat garbage provided you sprinkle it liberally with ketchup.

Art is nothing more than the shadow of humanity.