If I had not existed, someone else would have written me, Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, all of us.

The artists who want to be writers, read the reviews; the artists who want to write, don't.

Even sound seemed to fail in this air, like the air was worn out with carrying sounds so long.

Now she hates me. I have taught her that, at least.

When I was little there was a picture in one of our books, a dark place into which a single weak ray of light came slanting upon two faces lifted out of the shadow.

What's wrong with this world is, it's not finished yet. It is not completed to that point where man can put his final signature to the job and say, "It is finished. We made it, and it works.

The work never matches the dream of perfection the artist has to start with.