New York is of course many cities, and an exile does not return to the one he left.

An American in London...cannot but be impressed and charmed by the city. The momumentality of Washington, the thriving business of New York, the antique intimacy of Boston, plus a certain spacious and open feeling reminiscent of Denver and San Francisco-all these he finds combined for his pleasure.

All men are mortal, and therefore all men are losers; our profoundest loyalty goes out to the failed.

We take our bearings, daily, from others. To be sane is, to a great extent, to be sociable.

The educational aspect of art shows has become overbearing: some of exhibits can leave you bleary from trying to read the walls. Presumably a piece of art is timeless and it can say something to us. You are taking away the right of art to talk for itself.

Fiction is in danger of becoming a kind of poetry. Only other poets read it. Only other fiction writers care about it.

I like old men. They can be wonderful bastards because they have nothing to lose. The only people who can be themselves are babies and old bastards.