Writing is a refuge from unhappiness, but has its own sorrows.

Ironic and jittery, we are puzzled by the old heroes with their fighting, boasting, and cocksure lovemaking.

I am only interested in money because everyone else is.

The interest in Wisdom is fading. Soon there will not be enough left to support the aphorism, even though it tries to amuse by half-mocking the Wisdom it propounds.

A sense of righteousness is even more dangerous than a violent temper.

The New York action painters want their pictures to jump off the walls and chase you down the street.

Nobody knows the trouble I've seen: even less, the trouble I've successfully avoided.