From him to the stars, in all directions, there was only silence and emptiness.

The earth is mostly just a boneyard. But pretty in the sunlight.

From him to the stars, in all directions, there was only silence and emptiness.

Self-parody is the first portent of age.

I remember that the single most vicious letter I ever read was the letter Hemingway wrote Scribners when they asked him to give a blurb for From Here to Eternity. It's there, in the Selected Letters for all to read, an example of a once great writer at his very worst. I doubt that he ever forgave Scribners for publishing James Jones in the first place. War, as Hemingway saw it, belonged to him.

I make my share of mistakes, but one I never make is to underestimate the power of things. People imbued from childhood with the myth of the primacy of feeling seldom like to admit they really want things as much as they might want love, but my career has convinced me that plenty of them do. And some want things a lot worse than they want love.

If I had a mind to rent pigs, I'd be mighty upset. A man that likes to rent pigs won't be stopped.