Hope is ambiguous, but fear is precious.
Everyone, in some small sacred sanctuary of the self, is nuts.
Where there is too much, something is missing.
First-rate people hire first-rate people; second-rate people hire third-rate people.
Words sing. They hurt. They teach. They sanctify. They were man's first, immeasurable feat of magic. They liberated us from ignorance and our barbarous past.
Every writer is a narcissist. This does not mean that he is vain; it only means that he is hopelessly self-absorbed.