Our civilization has been founded on the notion of criticism: there is nothing sacred or untouchable except the freedom to think. Without criticism, that is to say, without rigor and experimentation, there is no science; without criticism there is no art or literature. I would also say that without criticism there is no healthy society.

Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.

Critics are like pigs at the pastry cart.

Critics are like eunuchs in a harem. They're there every night, they see it done every night, they see how it should be done every night, but they can't do it themselves.

A critic is a man who creates nothing and thereby feels qualified to judge the work of creative men. There is logic in this; he is unbiased - he hates all creative people equally.

A critic is someone who never actually goes to the battle yet who afterwards comes out shooting the wounded.

A critic is a man who knows the way but can't drive the car.

To arrange a library is to practice in a quiet and modest way the art of criticism.

Interpretation is the revenge of the intellect upon art.

If you don't know what it is, don't mess with it.