We get very little wisdom from success, you know.

What a lonely and silly thing it is to be an Armenian writer in America.

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

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

How do you write? You write, man, you write, that's how, and you do it the way the old English walnut tree puts forth leaf and fruit every year by the thousands. . . . If you practice an art faithfully, it will make you wise, and most writers can use a little wising up.

Two years ago your father died, Ulysses. But as long as we are alive, as long as we are together, as long as two of us are left, and remember him, nothing in the world can take him from us.

I see life as one life at one time, so many millions simultaneously, all over the earth.