Most of the faint intimations of immortality of which we are occasionally aware would seem to arise out of Art or the materials of Art.

The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

A pinch of probability is worth a pound of perhaps.

Things have dropped from me. I have outlived certain desires; I have lost friends, some by death... others through sheer inability to cross the street.

Two is company, four is a party, three is a crowd. One is a wanderer.

I don't believe the writer should know too much where he's going. If he does, he runs into old man blueprint—old man propaganda.

Humor is emotional chaos remembered in tranquility.