The supreme irony of life is that hardly anyone gets out of it alive.

A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.

When I don’t understand, I have an unbearable itch to know why.

Oh, you have to charge 'em, Jubal. The marks won't pay attention if it's free.

Some logics get nervous breakdowns. Overloaded phone system behaves like frightened child. Mike did not have upsets, acquired sense of humor instead. Low one. If he were a man, you wouldn't dare stoop over. His idea of thigh-slapper would be to dump you out of bed — or put itch powder in pressure suit.

I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them.

I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be - instead of the tawdry, lousy fouled-up mess it is.