“I come from the sort of family in which, at the age of ten, I was told I must always say hoi polloi, never "the hoi polloi," because hoi meant "the," and two "the's" were redundant -- indeed something only hoi polloi would say.”

“Hoi, hoi u embleer hrair! M'saion ule' hraka vair!”

“And let’s debunk one bit of writer myth while we’re here: Doing a seventeenth revision on a project does not make a writer an artist or move him above the writer hoi polloi any more than dressing entirely in black or wearing tweed jackets with leather elbow patches or big, black drover coats. These are all affectations, and smack of dilettantism. Real writers, and real artists, finish books and move on to the next project.”

“You go from the north of Laos and then you go across the Mekong, and when the Pathet Lao soldiers fire, you do not think about your family, just yourself only. When you are on the other side, you will not be like what you were before ou get through the Mekong. On the other side you cannot say to your wife, I love you more than my life. She saw! You cannot say that anymore! And when you try to restick this thing together is is like putting glue on a broken glass.”

“The Procrustean bed. . .suggests itself with dispiriting aptness as a metaphor for the Culture Wars, right down to the blandishments with which Procrustes must have lured his guests over the threshold. (I picture him as a handsome fellow with a large vocabulary and an oleaginous tongue, not unlike the chairmen of many English departments.) There's just one crucial difference. Sometimes Procrustes lopped off his victims, and sometimes he stretched them, but the Culture Wars always lop. I have never seen cultural politics enlarge a work of literature, only diminish it.”

“Something amazing happens when the rest of the world is sleeping. I am glued to my chair. I forget that I ever wanted to do anything but write. The crowded city, the crowded apartment, and the crowded calendar suddenly seem spacious. Three or four hours pass in a moment; I have no idea what time it is, because I never check the clock. If I chose to listen, I could hear the swish of taxis bound for downtown bars or the soft saxophone riffs that drift from a neighbor's window, but nothing gets through. I am suspended in a sensory deprivation tank, and the very lack of sensation is delicious.”

“Nyalamae Un Poar Nyayam Thaanaa?Kaalamae Un Paer Kaayam Thaanaa?Yaaro Yaar Yaaro.. Venpugai Aavaaro..Poi Pola Yaavum Purandoduthey Hoi..Nyalamae Un Poar Nyayam Thaanaa?Kaalamae Un Paer Kaayam Thaanaa?Aetho Nenjukkul Aasai AasaithaanaaEllamae Manmaelae Maayai MaayaithaanaVaazhvaiyae Vetri Kollavae Yaarundu Sollu..Naerukku Naeraai Nijam Mothuthey Hoi..Kaalamae Thee Thaan Thoovalaamo..Yaavumae Maa Yai Aagalaamo..Saerththu Ellamae Veen Veenthaanaa..Paarthathu Ellamae Pogum Pogumthaanaa..Pookindra Poovellam Vaadiyae Theerum..Ul Naakku Kooda Kaaigirathey Hoi..Nyalamae Un Poar Nyayam Thaanaa?Kaalamae Un Paer Kaayam Thaanaa?Yaaro Yaar Yaaro.. Venpugai Aavaaro..Poi Pola Yaavum Purandoduthey Hoi..”