Like All Dreamers, I Mistook Disenchantment For

I Wanted My Own Words. But The Ones I Use Have Dragged Through I Don't Know How Many Consciences.

Neither Sex, Without Some Fertilization Of The Complimentary Characters Of The Other, Is Capable Of The Highest Reaches Of Human Endeavor.

Better A Good Journalist Than A Poor Assassin.

It Was Odd, He Thought, That A Man Could Hate Himself As Though He Were Someone Else.

As Long As The Writer Cannot Write For The Two Billion Men Who Are Hungry, He Will Be Oppressed By A Feeling Of Malaise.