I belong rather to a more classical tradition of social analysis.

The only interesting ideas are heresies

Norman Mailer records in his recent essays and public appearances his perfecting of himself as a virile instrument of letters; he is perpetually in training, getting ready to launch himself from his own missile pad into a high, beautiful orbit; even his failures may yet be turned to successes.

Art is not only about something; it is something. A work of art is a thing in the world, not just a text or commentary on the world.

The felt unreliability of human experience brought about by the inhuman acceleration of historical change has led every sensitive modern mind to the recording of some kind of nausea, of intellectual vertigo.

Along with people who pretty themselves for the camera, the unattractive and the disaffected have been assigned their beauty.

Some of the exuberance of my essay-writing has gone because I'm worried about the uses they could serve.