Everybody writes a book too many.

If you don’t count some of Jehovah’s injunctions, there are no humorists in the Bible.

Shame on you. Don’t tell me you’ve been married for an hour and you’ve already got eyes for another woman.

I didn’t know about beauty, he had thought. Nobody ever told me.

One final thought. In the years leading up to my trial, whenever I was caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway leading to my cottage, creeping along behind a battered, rust eaten pick-up truck with a sticker on its rear bumper that read JESUS SAVES, I used to think don’t count on it, buster. Now I am no longer sure.

We could never agree about Boogie and I didn’t share Miriam’s reverence for professors. In fact, just in case I haven’t mentioned it before, the pride of my office wall is my framed high-school graduation certificate, lit from above. Miriam has reproached me for it. “Take it down, darling,” she once pleaded. But it still hangs there.

The process hasn’t changed, but the writer has developed. I still get up every morning and go to work.

Listen your Lordship, I’m a respecter of institutions. Even in Paris, I remained a Canadian. I puffed hashish, but I didn’t inhale.

I’m rambling again. Wandering off the point. But this is the true story of my wasted life...

There’s no such thing as a superhuman. But the only thing I got to tell you, if you take a dog and kick him around he’s got to be alert, he’s got to be more sharper than you. Well, we’ve been kicked around for two thousand years. We’re not more smarter, we’re more alert.