It did not matter, after all. He was only one man. One man's fate is not important. "If it is not, what is?" He could not endure those remembered words.

See, the thing is, as a writer you are free. You are about the freest person that ever was. Your freedom is what you have bought with your solitude, your loneliness.

What good is power when you're too wise to use it?

It is hard to swear when sex is not dirty and blasphemy does not exist.

Art, like sex, cannot be carried on indefinitely solo; after all, they have the same enemy, sterility.

Hate gets going, it goes round, it gets older and tighter and older and tighter, until it holds a person inside it like a fist holds a stick.

Almost anything carried to a logical extreme becomes depressing.