I knew that nobody but a luckless man could ever need a doctor in the face of a cyclone.

Tomorrow night is nothing but one long sleepless wrestle with yesterday's omissions and regrets.

And sure enough, even waiting will end...if you can just wait long enough.

It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.

The reason you will not say it is, when you say it, even to yourself, you will know it is true.

The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move. This is the artist's way of scribbling "Kilroy was here" on the wall of the final and irrevocable oblivion through which he must someday pass.

It seems impossible for a man to learn the value of money without first having to learn to waste it.