Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.)

She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the light bulbs.

The rest, with very little exaggeration, was books. Meant-to-be-picked-up books. Permanently-left-behind books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with books. But books, books. Tall cases lined three walls of the room, filled to and beyond capacity. The overflow had been piled in stacks on the floor. There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing.

You take a really sleepy man, Esmé, and he always stands a chance of again becoming a man with all his fac — with all his f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact.

Sometimes you get tired of riding in taxicabs the same way you get tired riding in elevators. All of a sudden, you have to walk, no matter how far or how high up.

In the first place, you’re way off when you start railing at things and people instead of at yourself.

You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world.