You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

I believe the poor fierce-eyed child had figured out that with a mere fifty dollars in her purse she might somehow reach Broadway or Hollywood - or the foul kitchen of a diner (Help Wanted) in a dismal ex-prairie state, with the wind blowing, and the stars blinking, and the cars, and the bars, and the barmen, and everything soiled, torn, dead.

There is only one school of literature - that of talent.

All my life I have been a poor go-to-sleeper. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me.

I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.

We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo.