A word to the wise ain’t necessary — it’s the stupid ones who need the advice.
He that uses many words for the explaining any subject doth, like the cuttlefish, hide himself for the most part in his own ink.
One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment.
A typical Mailer bon mot: an impeccable thought and an elegant formulation, preceded by seven words of needless mush.
Whatever an author puts between the two covers of his book is public property; whatever of himself he does not put there is his private property, as much as if he had never written a word.
It’s not plagiarism — I’m recycling words, as any good environmentally conscious writer would do.
Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.
Every word born of an inner necessity — writing must never be anything else.
Writing can wreck your body. You sit there on the chair hour after hour and sweat your guts out to get a few words.
I’d rather be caught holding up a bank than stealing so much as a two-word phrase from another writer.