For about 150 days a year in Venice, the sun doesn't show through the mist until noon.

I feel like I own all the kids in the world because, since I've never grown up myself, all my books are automatically for children.

The faster you blurt, the more swiftly you write, the more honest you are.

If you have moved over vast territories and dared to love silly things, you will have learned even from the most primitive items collected and put aside in your life.

It's lack that gives us inspiration. It's not fullness.

I take this continent with me into the grave.

There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches. Every minority, be it Baptist/Unitarian, Irish/Italian/Octogenarian/Zen Buddhist, Zionist/Seventh-day Adventist, Women's Lib/Republican, Mattachine/FourSquareGospel feels it has the will, the right, the duty to douse the kerosene, light the fuse. Every dimwit editor who sees himself as the source of all dreary blanc-mange plain porridge unleavened literature, licks his guillotine and eyes the neck of any author who dares to speak above a whisper or write above a nursery rhyme.