I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

A book is like a man - clever and dull, brave and cowardly, beautiful and ugly. For every flowering thought there will be a page like a wet and mangy mongrel, and for every looping flight a tap on the wing and a reminder that wax cannot hold the feathers firm too near the sun.

For every man in the world functions to the best of his ability, and no one does less than his best, no matter what he may think about it.

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.

A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean question: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well - or ill?

Wherever you can look - wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there.

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. I fear the disease is incurable.