In my opinion it's a shame that there is so much work in the world.

If I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything.

Hemingway shot himself. I don't like a man that takes the short way home.

Man knows so little about his fellows. In his eyes all men or women act upon what he believes would motivate him if he were mad enough to do what the other man or woman is doing.

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

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

The only environment the artist needs is whatever peace, whatever solitude, and whatever pleasure he can get at not too high a cost.