All men are moral. Only their neighbors are not.

Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there's time, the Bastard Time.

Don't make everyone know about your sadness.

You're bound to get idears if you go thinkin' about stuff

In literary criticism the critic has no choice but to make over the victim of his attention into something the size and shape of himself.

Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby those fruits may be eaten.

Maybe the hardest thing in writing is simply to tell the truth about things as we see them.