There are no vital and significant forms of art; there is only art$$$ and precious little of that.

Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed$$$ almost without sound$$$ like a thought trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness.

It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.

She bent over me again. Blood began to move around in me$$$ like a prospective tenant looking over a house.

Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains. You're the second guy I've met within hours who seems to think a gat in the hand means a world by the tail.

Some people think luxury is the opposite of poverty. It is not. It is the opposite of vulgarity.

One of the sturdiest precepts of the study of human delusion is that every golden age is either past or in the offing.

The handy thing about being a father is that the historic standard is so pitifully low.

All novels are sequels; influence is bliss.

Nothing is boring exept to people who aren't really paying attention.