Literature should not disappear up its own asshole, so to speak.

You develop a style from writing a lot.

Perhaps I am the turtle, able to live simply anywhere, even underwater for short periods, with my home on my back.

A man without a home can't be lost.

It was a thunderingly beautiful experience-voluptuous, sexual, dangerous, and expensive as hell.

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

Is there nothing I have done which will outlive me, other than the opprobrium of my first wife and sons and grandchildren? Do I care? Doesn't everybody? Poor me. Poor practically everybody, with so little durable good to leave behind!