A jealous wife is like a hornets' nest in your mattress
Once love had seemed like magic. Now it seemed like tricks.
If I had a staff of even one person, or could tolerate a small amphetamine habit, or entertain the possibility of weekly blood transfusions, or had been married to Vera Nabokov, or had a housespouse of even minimal abilities, a literary life would be easier to bring about. (In my mind I see all your male readers rolling their eyes. But your female ones - what is that? Are they nodding in agreement? Are their fists in the air?)
I've come to realize that life, while being everything, is also strangely not much. Except when the light shines on it a different way and then you realize it's a lot after all!
Love is the answer, said the songs, and that's OK. It was OK, I supposed, as an answer. But no more than that. It was not a solution; it wasn't really even an answer, just a reply.
You know, as fiction writers, if our instincts are off, we can't pay our bills.
All the world's a stage we're going through.
What I'm trying to say is the Holocaust was a horrific crime against humanity and frankly, I would never want to see that repeated.
Surprise is the tool of the Devil and it is the greatest power of the evil forces!
All men are equal and free: society by nature, and destination, is therefore autonomous and ungovernable. If the sphere of activity of each citizen is determined by the natural division of work and by the choice he makes of a profession, if the social functions are combined in such a way as to produce a harmonious effect, order results from the free activity of all men; there is no government. Whoever puts a hand on me to govern me is an usurper and a tyrant; I declare him my enemy.
It doesn't matter whether you're black, Hispanic, white. They're all in the same boat.