He did not think of himself as a writer for the simple reason that the world had never allowed him to think of himself in this way.

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

Nice, nice, very nice.

The bounties of space, of infinite outwardness, were three: empty heroics, low comedy, and pointless death.

All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist.

I just know that there are plenty of people who are in terrible trouble and can't get out. And so I'm impatient with those who think that it's easy for people to get out of trouble.

For a Russian to be chivalrous with an American is a spiritual impossibility, a conradiction in terms.