San Francisco itself is art, above all literary art. Every block is a short story, every hill a novel. Every home a poem, every dweller within immortal. That is the whole truth.

I do not know what makes a writer, but it probably isn't happiness.

The Tax Collector's letters are invariably mimeographed, and all they say is that you still haven't paid him.

We didn't say anything because there was such an awful lot to say, and no language to say it in.

Nobody, but nobody, is going to tell me I'm not the most. I am. I was the most when everybody else was struggling bitterly to become a little.

Sunday is the day people go quietly mad, one way or another.

All things lie dark in possibility.