We'd all do well to start over again, preferably with kindergarten.

To whom it may concern: It is springtime. It is late afternoon.

I'm an old guy, and I was protesting during the Vietnam War. We killed fifty Asians for every loyal American. Every artist worth a damn in this country was terribly opposed to that war, finally, when it became evident what a fiasco and meaningless butchery it was. We formed sort of a laser beam of protest. Every painter, every writer, every stand-up comedian, every composer, every novelist, every poet aimed in the same direction. Afterwards, the power of this incredible new weapon dissipated.

That is my principal objection to life, I think: It's too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes.

All the great story lines are great practical jokes that people fall for over and over again.

Why were so many Americans treated by their government as though their lives were as disposable as facial tissues? Because that was the way authors customarily treated bit-part players in their made-up tales.

Only in books do we learn what’s really going on.