I didn't want any degrees if all the ill-read literates and radio announcers and pedagogical dummies I knew had them by the peck.

But I was afraid of the questions (much more than the accusations) you might both put to me.

Where do the ducks go in the winter?

People never believe you.

How do you know you're going to do something, untill you do it?

I don't suppose a writing man ever really gets rid of his old crocus-yellow neckties. Sooner or later, I think, they show up in his prose, and there isn't a hell of a lot he can do about it.

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.