The honeymoon ends with the first sigh.
Only intellectuals confuse what they know with what they can articulate.
An excellent book could be written consisting entirely of synopses of books that ought to be written.
There is a level of fame where it is no longer necessary to be interesting, and a higher level where it is no longer possible.
We lie first about money, then about art; sex runs a distant third.
Beware of any discipline that creates its own subject matter.
Critics resent artists, but not half as much as artists resent critics.
Reading an author’s work for his life is like digging up a garden for manure.
A new law is passed. We do not read it; would not understand it if we read it; could not foresee its consequences if we understood it; yet hold an unalterable opinion of its merits.
Nothing is more exasperating than being lied to when both of you know and neither will admit it; yet this goes on all the time.