It is odd how a man believes he can think better in a special place. I have such a place, have always had it, but I know it isn't thinking I do there, but feeling and experiencing and remembering. It's a safety place, everyone must have one, although I have never heard of a man tell of it.
He doesn't belong to a race clever enough to split the atom but not clever enough to live at peace with itself.
And now, our submarines are armed with mass murder, our silly, only way of deterring mass murder.
Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard.
There are no ugly questions except those clothed in condescension.
Where does discontent start? You are warm enough, but you shiver. You are fed, yet hunger gnaws you. You have been loved, but your yearning wanders in new fields. And to prod all these there's time, the bastard time.
Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass.
You see this book is finished and it is a bad book and I must get rid of it. It can't be printed. It is bad because it isn't honest.
All men are moral. Only their neighbors are not.
What a wonderful thing a woman is. I can admire what they do even if I don't understand why.