Well, here we are, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.
Tiger got to hunt, Bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder, “Why, why, why?” Tiger got to sleep, Bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.
There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.
Maturity, the way I understand it is knowing what your limitations are.
Younger scientists are extremely sensitive to the moral implications of all they do.
You’ll forget it when you’re dead, and so will I. When I’m dead, I’m going to forget everything—and I advise you to do the same.
You want to know something? We are still in the Dark Ages. The Dark Ages—they haven’t ended yet.
You couldn’t help it that you were born without a heart. At least you tried to believe what the people with hearts believed—so you were a good man just the same.
You can’t just eat food. You’ve got to talk about it, too. And you’ve got to talk about it to somebody who understands that kind of food.
Why were so many Americans treated by their government as though their lives were as disposable as paper facial tissues? Because that was the way authors customarily treated bit-part players in their made-up tales.
Why so many of us a million years ago purposely knocked out major chunks of our brains with alcohol from time to time remains an interesting mystery. It may be that we were trying to give evolution a shove in the right direction—in the direction of smaller brains.
Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?