Should you protect profits? Yes. But run for the hills? No.
Just like those who are incurably ill, the aged know everything about their dying except exactly when.
Life is just a short period of time in which you are alive.
I write fiction and I’m told it’s autobiography, I write autobiography and I’m told it’s fiction, so since I’m so dim and they’re so smart, let them decide what it is or it isn’t.
All that we don’t know is astonishing. Even more astonishing is what passes for knowing.
When you publish a book, it’s the world’s book. The world edits it.
I cannot and do not live in the world of discretion, not as a writer, anyway. I would prefer to, I assure you – it would make life easier. But discretion is, unfortunately, not for novelists.
With the draft, everybody was involved. Everybody was fodder. When you got to be 21, 22 and graduated from college, for two years your life stopped. If you had been running in the direction of your life, you had to stop and do this other thing which was, if not menacing, just plain boring.
A Jew without Jews, without Judaism, without Zionism, without Jewishness, without a temple or an army or even a pistol, a Jew clearly without a home, just the object itself, like a glass or an apple.
Nothing keeps its promise.
A writer has to be driven crazy to help him to see. A writer needs his poisons.
A Jewish man with parents alive is a fifteen-year-old boy, and will remain a fifteen-year-old boy until they die!
The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress.
History… is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
Literature isn’t a moral beauty contest. Its power arises from the authority and audacity with which the impersonation is pulled off; the belief it inspires is what counts.