One day in Dipstick, Nebraska, or Landfill, Oklahoma, is worth more to me than an eternity in Dante's plastic Paradiso, or Yeats's gold-plated Byzantium.
Why the critics, like a flock of ducks, always move in perfect unison: Their authority with the public depends upon an appearance of unanimous agreement. One dissenting voice would shatter the whole fragile structure.
In art as in life, form and subject, body and soul, are one.
I would prefer to write about everything; what else is there? But one must be selective.
Anyone not paranoid in this world must be crazy. . . . Speaking of paranoia, it's true that I do not know exactly who my enemies are. But that of course is exactly why I'm paranoid.
My notion of a great novel is something like a five-hundred-page shaggy-dog story, with only the punch line omitted.
It is always dishonest for a reviewer to review the author instead of the author's book.
There is a wine called Easy Days and Mellow Nights, well-known on the outskirts of the Navajo reservation. It is an economical wine, fortified with the best of intentions, and I recommend it to every serious wino.
Life is cruel? Compared to what?
One of the pleasant things about small town life is that everyone, whether rich or poor, liked or disliked, has some kind of a role and place in the community. I never felt that living in a city - as I once did for a couple of years.
Music endures and ages far better than books. Books, made of words, are unavoidably attached to ideas, events, conflict, and history, but music has the power to transcend time. At least for a time. Palestrina sounds as fresh today as he did in 1555, but Dante, only three centuries older, already smells of the archaic, the medieval, the catacombs.
Alaska's chief attractions are: (a) its small and insignificant human population, thanks to the miserable climate; and (b) its large and magnificent wildlife population, thanks to (a). Both of these attractions are being rapidly diminished, however, by (c) the Law of Growth and Space-Age Sleaze.
A woman, as much as a man, is responsible by the age of forty for the character of her face. But women, obeying the biological imperative, strive harder to preserve a youthful appearance (the reproductive look) and lose it sooner.
Though I've lived in the rural West most of my life, I never once fell in love with a horse. Not once. Neither end.
The Proustian aquarium: grotesque and gorgeous fish drifting with languid fins through a subaqueous medium of pale violet polluted ink.
When the situation is hopeless, there's nothing to worry about.
Most of the literary classics are worth reading, if you've nothing better to do.
Books are like eggs -- best when fresh.
Reincarnation? There is such a thing. What could be more Mozartian than the Nutcracker Suite?
If there's anything I hate, it's the vibraphone. And the cha-cha-cha. And Latin rhythms generally.
The critics say that Shostakovich's Fourth Symphony has no form. They are wrong; it has the form of Shostakovich's Fourth Symphony.
Rocks, like louseworts and snail darters and pupfish and 3rdworld black, lesbian, feminist, militant poets, have rights, too. Especially the right to exist.
Literary critics, like a herd of cows or a school of fish, always face in the same direction, obeying that love for unity that every critic requires.
Opera: I like it, except for all those howling sopranos and caterwauling tenors. (Why can't tenors sing like men?)
The best argument for Christianity is the Gregorian chant. Listening to that music, one can believe anything -- while the music lasts.
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