I have the reputation for being the opposite of a money-grubber.
I do not want to have the feeling of writing "for eternity," so to speak.
Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.
Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive.
Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.
Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.
Only he who loves and is loved for his own sake can be happy, and what produces that happiness is not so much the sense of sexual communion as of two people being together. . . the sexual act viewed as a whole probably affords less happiness than a totally ordinary kiss or often indeed one simple word from the one you love.
Don't waste too much time wishing, hoping, and being envious; it'll make you bugnutty.
We are always saying: Let the Law take its Course but what we really mean is: Let the Law take OUR Course.
Do yourself a favor,' I said. "Forget it. Forget you ever saw me. " "Forget that you tried to kill me too?" "Yeah. That, too. " "But who are you?" "Percy-" I started to say. Then the skeletons turned around. "Gotta go!" "What kind of name is Percy Gotta-go?" I bolted for the exit.
Woe to these people who have no appetite for the very dish that their age serves up.