It is the hour of pearl—the interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself.

A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers.

Cannery Row in Monterey in California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream.

Man, unlike anything organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments.

One man was so mad at me that he ended his letter, "Beware. You will never get out of this world alive."

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

Luck or tragedy, some people get runs. Then of course there are those who divide it even, good and bad, but we never hear of them. Such a life doesn't demand attention. Only the people who get the good or bad runs.