As I get older, my childhood self becomes more accessible to me, but selectively, in images as stylized and suspect as moments remembered from a novel read years ago.

A healthy male adult bore consumes each year one and a half times his own weight in other people's patience.

The first thrill of adultery is entering the house. Everything there has been paid for by the other man.

The artist brings something into the world that didn't exist before, and ... he does it without destroying something else.

We all begin life as parasites within the mother, and writers begin their existence imitatively, within the body of letters.

Baseball is meant to be fun, and not all the solemn money-men in fur-collared greatcoats, not all the scruffy media cameramen and sour-faced reporters that crowd around the dugouts can quite smother the exhilarating spaciousness and grace of this impudently relaxed sport, a game of innumerable potential redemptions and curious disappointments.

Appealingness is inversely proportional to attainability.

Adversity in immunological doses has its uses; more than that crushes.

I am sometimes visited by the heretical thought that there is no such thing as good and bad architecture, any more than there is good and bad nature. It is all in where you stand at the time.

Art imitates Nature in this: not to dare is to dwindle.