He Has The Gift Of Quiet.

What Do You Think Spies Are: Priests, Saints And Martyrs? They're A Squalid Procession Of Vain Fools, Traitors Too, Yes; Pansies, Sadists And Drunkards, People Who Play Cowboys And Indians To Brighten Their Rotten Lives.

It Struck Him As A Bit Unfair That, At The Age Of Eight, He Should Have Manifested The Same Sense Of Solitude That Haunted Him At Forty-three.

All Power Corrupts But Some Must Govern.

Writing Is Like Walking In A Deserted Street. Out Of The Dust In The Street You Make A Mud Pie.

I Happen To Write By Hand. I Don't Even Type.