There is comfort in routine.

We only have one story. All novels, all poetry are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil.

When a man says he does not want to speak of something he usually means he can think of nothing else.

American cities are like badger holes, ringed with trash--all of them--surrounded by piles of wrecked and rusting automobiles, and almost smothered in rubbish. Everything we use comes in boxes, cartons, bins, the so-called packaging we love so much. The mountain of things we throw away are much greater than the things we use.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another-but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

You can't slice up morals.

Man has become our greatest hazard, and our only hope.