And the old horror of being a professional writer, and the usual stench of words that goes with it, is begining to drive me out of my seat. (Buddy)

There is a marvelous peace in not publishing ... I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure.

All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

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.

... even the most sublimely accomplished non-stop talker can't consistently please.

It was a very stupid thing to do, I'll admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was doing it.

There isn't anyone anywhere who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know — listen to me, now — don't you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.