I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

Ours is a culture and a time immensely rich in trash as it is in treasures.

That's the great secret of creativity. You treat ideas like cats: you make them follow you.

We need our Arts to teach us how to breathe

You grow ravenous. You run fevers. You know exhilarations. You can't sleep at night, because your beast-creature ideas want out and turn you in your bed. It is a grand way to live.

I came on the old and best ways of writing through ignorance and experiment and was startled when truths leaped out of brushes like quail before gunshot.

So while our art cannot, as we wish it could, save us from wars, privation, envy, greed, old age, or death, it can revitalize us amidst it all.

It is a lie to write in such way as to be rewarded by fame offered you by some snobbish quasi-literary groups in the intellectual gazettes.

We all are rich and ignore the buried fact of accumulated wisdom.

And what, you ask, does writing teach us? First and foremost, it reminds us that we are alive and that it is a gift and a privilege, not a right.

They were absolutely lovely, and in their presence, so was she.

I can't say I've ever had a dream about space or that I ponder it all the time.

I did my first film with Francis Ford Copploa which spoiled the hell out of me.

Everything that becomes true starts with a manifesto

God often uses a man or several different men to impact your life with the anointing of the Holy Spirit.

Humankind's constant effort to fix its shortcomings is what drives human history.

Our nation is well equipped to make the transition. We have an abundance of natural resources like wind, natural gas, solar and geothermal.

Fathers should speak with their children.

Success in life, in anything, depends upon the number of persons that one can make himself agreeable to.

When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!