Oh, sure, we have another world war coming, and another great depression, but where are the leaders this time?
One of the things that I tell beginning writers is this: If you describe a landscape, or a cityscape, or a seascape, always be sure to put a human figure somewhere in the scene. Why? Because readers are human beings, mostly interested in human beings. People are humanists. Most of them are humanists, that is.
I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center.
I had no talent for science. What was infinitely worse: all my fraternity brothers were engineers.
When a man becomes a writer, I think he takes on a sacred obligation to produce beauty and enlightenment and comfort at top speed.
We could have saved the Earth but we were too damned cheap.
The year was 2081, and everyone was finally equal.
Evolution can go to hell as far as I am concerned. What a mistake we are. We have mortally wounded this sweet life-supporting planet - the only one in the whole Milky Way - with a century of transportation whoopee.
All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is.
I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different.
I'm convinced that no one can amount to a damn in the arts if he becomes sweetly reasonable, seeing all sides of a picture, forgiving all sins.
One might be led to suspect that there were all sorts of things going on in the universe which he or she did not thoroughly understand.
Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.
As a Humanist, I love science. I hate superstition, which could never have given us A-bombs.
Younger scientists are extremely sensitive to the moral implications of all they do.
I consider anybody a twerp who hasn't read 'Democracy in America' by Alexis de Tocqueville. There can never be a better book than that one on the strengths and vulnerabilities inherent in our form of government.
Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly did. They called me John.
I let the dog out, or I let him in, and we talk some. I let him know I like him, and he lets me know he likes me.
There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organization. If there are such things as angels, I hope that they are organized along the lines of the Mafia.
It may be that the most striking thing about members of my literary generation in retrospect will be that we were allowed to say absolutely anything without fear of punishment.