The spring of 1930 marks the end of a period of grave concern...American business is steadily coming back to a normal level of prosperity.

If a man cannot tell what he wants to do, then he must find out what he ought to do. If desire has become complicated, then hold fast to duty.

What is the easiest, the most comfortable thing for a writer to do? To congratulate the society in which he lives: to admire its biceps, applaud its progress, tease it endearingly about its follies.

If you’re that clever you can argue yourself into anything.

Is any novelist going to recognize the moment when he or she has nothing more to say? It is a brave thing to admit. And since as a professional writer you are full of anxiety anyway, you could easily misread the signs.

I'm a novelist, so I can't write about ideas unless they're attached to people.

We live, we die, we are remembered, we are forgotten.