In the end, death came uniformly to all, and all extracted as much satisfaction from their dying as this essentially graceless process could afford.

The less a writer discusses his work and himself the better. The master chef slaughters no chickens in the dining room; the doctor writes prescriptions in Latin; the magician hides his hinges, mirrors, and trapdoors with the utmost care.

If there were no such creatures as minstrel-maidens, it would be necessary to invent them.

Right now I'm so old that if I had a big gush of money, I don't know what I'd do with it. I don't travel anymore. I don't need anything, don't want anything. I'd give it to my son, I guess, and let him enjoy it.

I haven't been to a movie since somebody gave me free tickets to Star Wars, which I went to.

I got done writing Ports of Call and suddenly realized I have far too much material for the book.

Since we are not permitted to act, we are obliged to know.