Hope Is A Talent Like Any Other.

No One Asks Public Men To Be Strictly Moral, But They Must Seem To Be Well-behaved.

The Least Stupid Question A Man Asks In His Lifetime Is Not: Is There A God And Is He A God Or A Devil? But: Brother, Why Are You Killing Me?

Inevitably, The Flood Of Literary Pornography Loosed On Us Is Dulling Our Reactions Of Surprise Or Shock. Its Writers Are Forced To Raise The Ante, To Provide Stronger And Stronger Stimulants. Or Try To Provide Them, Since Both The Manner, The Naming Of Parts And The Few Inexpressive Four-letter Words, And The Matter, Are Narrowly Limited.

Writing Was A Chimney For My Blazing Ambitions.

From So Much Of This Seriously-intended Pornography There Rises, Even When It Is Lewdly Or Boisterously Comic, The Acrid Smell, Unmistakable, Of Self-dislike.