“The first draft of a book is the most uncertain-where you need guts, the ability to accept the imperfect until it is better.”

I sometimes confuse myself with the little I know.

As long as a man stays alive he can’t tell what chances will pop up next. But a dead man signs no checks.

We have in my country (Russia) a quotation: “It is impossible to make out of apology a fur coat.

First drafts are for learning what your story is about.

Writers who can’t invent stories often substitute style for narrative. They remind me of the painter who couldn’t paint people, so he painted chairs.

All men are Jews, though few men know it.

You can’t eat language but it eases thirst.

One’s fantasy goes for a walk and returns with a bride.

The short story packs a self in a few pages predicating a lifetime

Reader, I am myself the subject of my book; you would be unreasonable to spend your leisure on so frivolous and so vain a matter.

We’re persecuted in the most civilized languages.

Charity you can give even when you haven’t got.

You could not pity anything if you weren’t a man; pity was a surprise to God. It was not his invention.

Completed, most lives were alike in stages of living-joys, celebrations, crises, illusions, losses, sorrows.

You write by sitting down and writing. There’s no particular time or place—you suit yourself, your nature.

I don’t think you can do anything for anyone without giving up something of your own.

To go from mortal to Buddha, you have to put an end to karma, nurture your awareness, and accept what life brings.

Now I’ve had everything except for the thrill of watching Babe Ruth play.

You possess other people’s…Bodies.” he accepted that statement with a nod. “do you want to possess my body?” “i want to do a lot of things to your body, but that’s not one of them.

You are more sinful than you could dare imagine and you are more loved and accepted than you could ever dare hope.

Oh, Clark,if you had any idea what I want to do to you right now.And I…i can’t live with that knowledge. I can’t. It’s Not who I am. I can’t be the kind of man who just…accepts.

The Fascist accepts life and loves it, knowing nothing of and despising suicide; he rather conceives of life as duty and struggle and conquest.

He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure.

It doesn’t prove anything except that you’re bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign of cowardice.