An ocean without unnamed monsters would be like sleep without dreams.

It is the nature of a man as he grows older, a small bridge intime, toprotest againstchange, particularlychangefor the better.

She wasn't happy, but then she wasn't unhappy. She wasn't anything. But I don't believe anyone is a nothing. There has to be something inside, if only to keep the skin from collapsing. This vacant eye, listless hand, this damask cheek dusted like a doughnut with plastic powder, had to have a memory or a dream.

I have written a great many stories and I still don't know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.

Doc still loved true things but he knew that it was not a general love and it could be a very dangerous mistress.

He had an idea that even when beaten he could steal a little victory by laughing at defeat.

Critics are the eunuchs of literature. They stand by in envious awe while the whole man and his partner demonstrate the art of living.