Why do you treat me as they do, as though I were exactly what I want to be. Why do we treat people that way?

…mementos of this world, in which the things worth being were so easily exchanged for the things worth having.

How some of the writers I come across get through their books without dying of boredom is beyond me.

Stupidity is the deliberate cultivation of ignorance.

What is it they want from the man that they didn’t get from the work? What do they expect? What is there left when he‘s done with his work, what’s any artist but the dregs of his work, the human shambles that follows it around?

It is the bliss of childhood that we are being warped most when we know it the least.

Everybody has that feeling when they look at a work of art and it’s right, that sudden familiarity, a sort of…recognition, as though they were creating it themselves, as though it were being created through them while they look at it or listen to it.

He was the only person caught in the collapse, and afterward, most of his work was recovered too, and it is still spoken of, when it is noted, with high regard, though seldom played.

We’re comic. We’re all comics. We live in a comic time. And the worse it gets the more comic we are.

How real is any of the past, being every moment revalued to make the present possible.

Power doesn’t corrupt people; people corrupt power.

Power doesn’t corrupt people, people corrupt power.

What’s any artist, but the dregs of his work? the human shambles that follows it around. What’s left of the man when the work’s done but a shambles of apology.

We want someone to bring us the news.

He walked out into the cold morning asking himself this heretical question: Can you start measuring a minute at any instant you wish?

I mean why should somebody go steal and break the law to get all they can when there’s always some law where you can be legal and get it all anyway!

If it is not beautiful for someone, it does not exist.