One must be just a little crazy to write a great novel. One must be capable of allowing the darkest, most ancient and shrewd parts of one’s being to take over the work from time to time.

The image-managers encourage the individual to fashion himself into a smooth coin, negotiable in any market.

It would be, for me, mere pointless pleasure, an illusion of order for this one frail, foolish, flicker-flash in the long dull fall of eternity.

Writing a novel is like heading out over the open sea in a small boat. It helps, if you have a plan and a course laid out.

Our noblest hopes grow teeth and pursue us like tigers.

Self pity is easily the most destructive of the non-pharmaceutical narcotics; it is addictive, gives momentary pleasure and separates the victim from reality.

Art, of course, is a way of thinking, a way of mining reality.