There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.

The thing with kids is, if they want to grab for the gold ring, you have to let them do it, and not say anything. If they fall off, they fall off, but it's bad if you say anything.

The existence of God, the why of life, was all that really only a question of glands?

A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

I suspect that money is a far greater distraction for the artist than hunger.

Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.