Of all questions, why? is the least pertinent. It begs the question; it assumes the larger part of its own response; to wit, that a sensible response exists.

Jack Vance's Lyonesse books are the greatest fairy tale of the twentieth century.

I must cite an intrinsic condition of the universe. We set forth in any direction which seems convenient; each leads to the same place: the end of the universe.

I suspect that the word (art) was invented by second-rate intelligences to describe the incomprehensible activities of their betters.

Beauty compelled admiration and erotic yearning; such was its organic function. But never by itself could it command love.

There are no absolute certainties in this universe. A man must try to whip order into a yelping pack of probabilities, and uniform success is impossible.

I suffer from a spiritual malaise which manifests itself in outbursts of vicious rage.