Saul Bellow Quotes
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O Lord! he concluded, forgive all these trespasses. Lead me not into Penn Station.
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Love is the most potent cosmetic.
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There is only one way to defeat the enemy, and that is to write as well as one can. The best argument is an undeniably good book.
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Humankind struggles with collective powers for its freedom, the individual struggles with dehumanization for the possession of his soul.
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From Euclid to Newton there were straight lines. The modern age analyzes the wavers.
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Conquered people tend to be witty.
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It would not be practical for her to hate herself. Luckily, God sends a substitute, a husband.
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...is the carbon molecule lined with thought?
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To tell the truth I never had it so good. But I lacked the strength of character to bear such joy.
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Art -- the fresh feeling, new harmony, the transforming magic which by means of myth brings back the scattered distracted soul from its modern chaos -- art, not politics, is the remedy.
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I have begun in old age to understand...that we seldom if ever realize how generous we are to ourselves, and just how stingy with others.
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I want to tell you, don't marry suffering. Some people do. They get married to it, and sleep and eat together, just as husband and wife. If they go with joy they think it's adultery.
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...I am much better now at ambiguities.
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Retirement is an illusion. Not a reward but a mantrap. The bankrupt underside of success. A shortcut to death. Golf courses are too much like cemeteries.
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Only self-hatred could lead him to ruin himself because his heart was "broken.
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An exchange occurs between man and woman. Love and thought complete each other in the human pair, and something like an exchange of souls takes place, according to the divine plan.
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Erotic practices have become diversified. Sex used to be a single-crop farming, like cotton or wheat; now people raise all kinds of things.
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She was what we used to call a suicide blonde - dyed by her own hand.
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You can spend the entire second half of your life recovering from the mistakes of the first half.
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The sand swallows burst out of their scupper holes in the bluffs and out over the transparent drown of the water, back again to the white, to the brown, to the black, from moving to stock-still sand waves and water-worked woods and roots that hugged and twisted in the sun.
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The flesh would shrink and go, the blood would dry, but no one believes in his mind of minds or heart of hearts that the pictures do stop.
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I am deeply moved when I write. I get turned on by it. I've never used any drugs for stimulation. I don't use words loosely. When I'm working and the right word comes, there is an answering resonance within me. There is also a hardness of intention that goes with it. There is no idleness in it.
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The late philosopher Morris R. Cohen of CCNY was asked by a student in the metaphysics course, Professor Cohen, how do I know that I exist? The keen old prof replied, And who is asking?
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The ocean was waiting with grand and bitter provocations, as if it invited you to think how deep it was, how much colder than your blood or saltier, or to outguess it, to tell which were its feints or passes and which its real intentions, meaning business.