Whoever wants to be a Christian should tear the eyes out of his reason.
You have to have been in love to write poetry.
there isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.
And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.
Life and death matters, yes. And the question of how to behave in this world, how to go in the face of everything. Time is short and the water is rising.
If we're lucky, writer and reader alike, we'll finish the last line or two of a short story and then just sit for a minute, quietly. Ideally, we'll ponder what we've just written or read; maybe our hearts or intellects will have been moved off the peg just a little from where they were before. Our body temperature will have gone up, or down, by a degree. Then, breathing evenly and steadily once more, we'll collect ourselves, writers and readers alike, get up, "created of warm blood and nerves" as a Chekhov character puts it, and go on to the next thing: Life. Always life.
That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.
I don't know that I have a single comedy philosophy. But talking about things that matter to you is a good place to start. Listening is a big part of it, too.
If you are afraid of the sunlight, you ain't a good man!
Little prigs and three-quarter madmen may have the conceit that the laws of nature are constantly broken for their sakes.
Prepare, and be forewarned in time. If thou hast tried and failed, O dauntless fighter, yet lose not courage: fight on, and to the charge return again and yet again. . . Remember, thou that fightest for man's liberation, each failure is success, and each sincere attempt wins its rewards in time.