A critic is a man who creates nothing and thereby feels qualified to judge the work of creative men. There is logic in this; he is unbiased, he hates all creative people equally.

Most people can't think, most of the remainder won't think, and the small fraction who do think mostly can't do it very well.

His was not a small mind bothered by logic and consistency.

They didn't want it good, they wanted it Wednesday.

Each man is his own prisoner, in solitary confinement for life.

It would take centuries and he must grow and grow and grow, but he was in no hurry--he grokked that Eternity and the ever-beautifully-changing Now were identical.

Pain is the basic mechanism built into us by millions of years of evolution which safeguards us by warning when something threatens our survival.