My loathings are simple. stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music. My pleasures are the most intense known to man: writing and butterfly hunting.

At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.

A creative writer must study carefully the works of his rivals, including the Almighty. He must possess the inborn capacity not only of recombining but of re-creating the given world. In order to do this adequately, avoiding duplication of labor, the artist should know the given world.

The commentator may be excused for repeating what he has stressed in his own books and lectures, namely that "offensive" is frequently but a synonym for "unusual;" and a great work of art is of course always original, and thus by its very nature should come more or less as a shocking surprise.

Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.

All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.

Coordinating there Events and objects with remote events And vanished objects. Making ornaments Of accidents and possibilities.