What a wonderful thing a woman is. I can admire what they do even if I don’t understand why.
What a frightening thing is the human, a mass of gauges and dials and registers, and we can read only a few and those perhaps not accurately.
We’ve got so many laws you can’t breathe without breaking something.
We value virtue but do not discuss it. The honest bookkeeper, the faithful wife, the earnest scholar get little of our attention compared to the embezzler, the tramp, the cheat.
We spend our time searching for security and hate it when we get it.
We should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.
We are lonesome animals. We spend all our life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say – and to feel – “Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as alone as you thought.”
Victor’s unfortunate choice it was always to mis-see, to mis-hear, to misjudge.
Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard.
To finish is sadness to a writer – a little death. He puts the last word down and it is done. But it isn’t really done. The story goes on and leaves the writer behind, for no story is ever done.
To be alive at all is to have scars.
There’s nobody as lonely as an all-married man.
