I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms.

Life is as the sea, art a ship in which man conquers life's crushing formlessness, reducing it to a course, a series of swells, tides and wind currents inscribed on a chart.

Good fiction is made of that which is real, and reality is difficult to come by.

I suddenly recall the arpeggios of laughter lilting across the tender, springtime grass-gay-welling, far-floating, fluent, spontaneous, a bell-like feminine fluting, then suppressed; as though snuffed swiftly and irrevocably beneath the quiet solemnity of the vespered air now vibrant with somber chapel bells.

Power doesn't have to show off. Power is confident, self-assuring, self-starting and self-stopping, self-warming and self-justifying. When you have it, you know it.

Having tried to give pattern to the chaos which lives within the pattern of your certainties, I must come out, I must emerge.

It is sometimes advantageous to be unseen, although it is most often rather wearing on the nerves.

When American life is most American it is apt to be most theatrical.

That ... is how the world moves: Not like an arrow, but a boomerang.