Man's creative struggle, his search for wisdom and truth, is a love story.

Food is a profound subject and one, incidentally, about which no writer lies.

Art is the final cunning of the human soul which would rather do anything than face the gods.

Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.

So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.

The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart.

Every man needs two women: a quiet home-maker, and a thrilling nymph.