The purpose of writing is both to keep up with life and to run ahead of it. I am little comfort to myself, although I am the only comfort I have, excepting perhaps streets, clouds, the sun, the faces and voices of kids and the aged, and similar accidents of beauty, innocence, truth and loneliness.

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

The best that can be said for anybody is probably that you misunderstood him favorably.

All I can do is write my stories for mankind, and rest easy.

Kids are always the only future the human race has.

The mad also laugh, or is that what Freud and the others discovered perhaps, that only the mad laugh?

All things lie dark in possibility.