I've discovered that rejections are not altogether a bad thing. They teach a writer to rely on his own judgment and to say in his heart of hearts, 'To hell with you.'

I have begun in old age to understand...that we seldom if ever realize how generous we are to ourselves, and just how stingy with others.

With a novelist, like a surgeon, you have to get a feeling that you've fallen into good hands - someone from whom you can accept the anesthetic with confidence.

Readiness to answer all questions is the infallible sign of stupidity.

It's not up to me ... to make the world consistent.

Towards the end of your life you have something like a pain schedule to fill out - a long schedule like a federal document, only it's your pain schedule. Endless categories. First, physical causes - like arthritis, gallstones, menstrual cramps. New category, injured vanity, betrayal, swindle, injustice. But the hardest items of all have to do with love. The question then is: So why does everybody persist? If love cuts them up so much.

It wasn't that he was specially ungenerous but that he put things off to give his generosity a longer and more significant route.