The faces in New York remind me of people who played a game and lost.

America... an economic system prouder of the distribution of its products than of the products themselves.

There are things a man must not do even to save a nation.

A critic is someone who enters the battlefield after the war is over and shoots the wounded.

No great scoundrel is ever uninteresting.

We are all addicts in various stages of degradation where I live on the Upper West Side, some to heroin, some to small dogs, and some to the New York Times. The heroin is cut, the dogs are paranoid, and the Times cheats by skimping on the West Coast ball scores. No matter, each of us goes upon the street solely in pursuit of his own particular curse.

Every social war is a battle between the very few on both sides who care and who fire their shots across a crowd of spectators.