Now and then a readable novel is written that takes its author as its subject; we call these autobiographies.
Religion, art, taste, and other delusions.
Love-conquers-all is the dullest story in the world. In most of the interesting stories love conquers nothing whatever.
Nice manners are a minor virtue rarely found in people with major ones.
The praise of reviewers tends to be bland and uninformative, with exceptions. One can be certain that an actor’s “riveting” performance was far worse than usual, and that a “lyrical” novel will be unreadable.
You don’t need to love what I love, just hate what I hate.
Technology makes all our dreams come true, nightmares included.
The pretense that empty and prolix speeches are noble, that pedestrian performances are scintillating, that crude and mawkish poetry is stirring and profound — this celebration of kitsch is the most degrading aspect of official public spectacle.
There ought to be a small but discernible difference between your favorites and what you think best: a large difference is snobbery, and no difference is also snobbery, of an opposite kind.
The worst disaster in the movies is to find a bag of money.
A taste for bad people sometimes indicates a defect of character; a taste for bad art always does.