When you're a child you're the center of everything. Everything happens for you. Other people? They're only ghosts furnished for you to talk to.

We can shoot rockets into space but we can't cure anger or discontent.

It is true that we are weak and sick and ugly and quarrelsome but if that is all we ever were, we would millenniums ago have disappeared from the face of the earth.

You can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch.

Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?

My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day.