“I'm not a very inventive writer in the sense of using the technical devices other playwrights do—look at Brecht! ... I find myself stuck with these characters who are either sitting or standing, and they've either got to walk out of a door, or come in through a door, and that's about all they can do.”
1994
On art and politics: “I think writers are not only writers, they are also citizens.”
1968
Recalling a dinner with T. S. Eliot: “He was wearing a cowboy hat, and we all got plastered . . . He couldn't walk, for his ankles were crossed, so Valerie lifted him into the taxi.”
1966
“Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf means who's afraid of the big bad wolf . . . who's afraid of living life without false illusions.”
1955
“I once heard two junkies arguing about my book, and finally one guy says, “If he really knew what he was talking about, he couldn't write the book, he'd be out in the can.”
1995
“I find funny and silly the pompous kind of self-important talk about the artist who takes risks. Artistic risks are like show-business risks—laughable.”
1992
“The phrase I like to use to describe my sense of time—a play on comparative literature—is comparative time.”
1998
“During signing sessions my queue is always full of, you know, wild-eyed sleazebags and people who stare at me very intensely, as if I have some particular message for them.”
1975
“Being American is, I think, a very difficult thing in art, because all the elements are European . . . “
1996
On readings: “It's not a love of poetry readings that attracts those who do come to them but theater: to see what the beast looks like in person.”
1990
“If you are going to write autobiography, don't expect that it will clear anything up. It makes it more clear to you, but it doesn't alleviate anything.”
1983
“I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.”
1990
On foreignness: “In the center of an empire, you can think of your experience as universal. Outside the empire, or on the fringes of the empire, you cannot.”
1994
“I think Shakespeare got drunk after he finished King Lear. That he had a ball writing it.”
1974
On hippies: “What I do like about them is that they have tried to revive the spirit of ‘Carnival.’ But I'm afraid that when they renounce work entirely, the fun turns ugly.”
2000
“I've never been drawn to the feminist movement. I've never been put down by a man, unless I deserved it, and have never felt inferior.”
1984
“After my best friend jumped off the bridge, I knew that I was next. So—Paris. With forty dollars and a one-way ticket.”
1984
On the dangers of writing too much: “By the eighteenth book, one has a sense of having bricked oneself into a niche, a roosting place for other people's pigeons. I wouldn't recommend it.”
1998
“It was pretty easy to picture myself at his [Castro’s] side. He was, in some ways, the good father.”
2009
“When I finish a sentence, after much labor, it’s finished. A certain point comes at which you can’t do any more work on it because you know it will kill the sentence.”
2000
“Writers of either gender ought to be able to do the opposite sex—that's one basic test of competence, after all.”
2003
“I’m not adopted. But that longing and that sense of absence . . . are perhaps other ways of expressing the actualities of my family. Different facts, same emotions.”
1985
On teaching creative writing: “Finally you begin to make your mistakes on the highest level—let's say the upper slopes of slippery Parnassus—and it's at that point you need coaching.”
1981
On the difficulty of writing about sex: “Faint equivalents can sometimes be found. . . . Or it can be rendered obliquely—an adolescent’s mental image of his or her parents making love, which must be something on the order of crocodiles mating.”
1993
“I write because I'm a writer. It is rather like cooking: to make something out of the raw material at hand.”
2002
“I’m not ashamed to admit that occasionally I’ve found myself aroused by my own depictions of sex.”
1966
“I seem to have the blind self-acceptance of the eccentric who can't conceive that his eccentricities are not clearly understood.”
1972
“I think that what happens in my poetic work in the future will depend on my being knocked in the face, and thrown flat, and given cancer, and all kinds of other things short of senile dementia.”
1981
On winning the Pulitzer Prize while living in Brazil: “There was one vegetable man we always went to. And he said, “You know, it's amazing! Last week Señora (Somebody) took a chance on a bicycle and she won! My customers are so lucky!”
1991
On therapy patients: “Perhaps they become better people, but they also become stale and uninteresting people with very few exceptions. Like dried-out cheese, or wilted flowers.”
2000
“One man wrote me, saying, ‘You know who you are? You're nothing but a Captain Bly pissing up a drainpipe!’”
1994
“Since thanks to poetry the world is closer, and its unity more perceptible, we feel more part of that unity: like the leaf of a tree, even if it falls off the branch, in an instant that is eternal. So what is death?”
1967
On color: “When I began to lose my sight, the last color I saw was yellow, because it is the most vivid of colors. I live in a grey world, rather like the silver screen world. But yellow stands out.”
1981
“I wanted to meet [other artists]. I suppose I simply felt that I was taking pot shots at clay pipes. Pop! Down goes Gertrude, down goes Jean Cocteau, down goes André Gide.”
2000
On life imitating art: “The very genetic determinism I posited in World's End as a way of shaking off my inherited demons is being proven in fact as we map out the human genome.”
2010
"You can’t learn to write in college. It’s a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do—and they don’t. They have prejudices."
1991
“Being an object of curiosity (and rivalry) is very peculiar when you’re no longer young. You really spend an awful lot of your time in New York just being confused about how to act.”
1982
“[Persecution mania] is still around. In your writing, in your exchanges with people, meeting people who are in Russian affairs, Russian literature, etcetera.”
1996
“I hate to use the word in this context, but I must . . . my novels celebrate the cold war, and therefore the passions awakened by this titanic struggle are really a narrative obligation.”
1973
“. . . if [other writers] can spend—as one of my American girl students did—ten pages on the act of fellatio without embarrassing themselves, very good luck to them.”
1965
“The idea that addiction is somehow a psychological illness is, I think, totally ridiculous. It's as psychological as malaria. It's a matter of exposure.”
2001
“I don’t see much point in doing things for a pure joke. Every now and then you need a joke, but not so much as the people who spend all their lives constructing joke palaces think you do.”
1978
“Writing a novel is like working on foreign policy. There are problems to be solved. It's not all inspirational.”
1982
“Southern writers must have learned the art of storytelling from listening to oral tales. I did. It gave me the knowledge that the simplest incident can make a story.”
1987
“. . . I used to think I lacked confidence. Now I think I knew I had nothing much yet to write about. Or not perspective enough to know what was there.”
1992
On starting a new novel: “Every time I must find something to do that will look like a novelty, something a little beyond my capabilities.”
1957
On his childhood: “I was thought somewhat eccentric, which was fair enough, and stupid, which I suitably resented . . . ”
2006
On sitting down to write: “It's like standing on the edge of a cliff. This is especially true of the first draft. Every day you're making up the earth you're going to stand on.”
2004
“At least half of your mind is always thinking, I’ll be leaving; this won’t last. It’s a good Buddhist attitude. If I were a Buddhist, this would be a great help. As it is, I’m just sad.”
1983
On teaching at the Iowa Writer’s Conference: “The entire time [John Cheever and I] were there . . . I don't think either of us ever took the covers off our typewriters. We made trips to a liquor store twice a week in my car.”
1954
“Critics write about my vitality. What is vitality? As a principle it is a lot of balls. The life-force is rubbish, an abstraction, an idea without character.”
1964
“Savy, the biologist, said something appropriate: In the beginning there was emotion, and the verb wasn't there at all . . . ”
1996
Interviewer: “You [think] that not only should a writer have enemies but that he should actually cultivate them?” Cela: “Yes, so that they help him move up the ladder.”
1966
“If [the crowd of expatriate poets in Paris] was influenced it was rather by the ambiance, the air of Paris and the way of living in France, rather than by this or that French author.”
1976
“Fiction must compete with first-rate reporting. If you cannot write a story that is equal to a factual account of battle in the streets or demonstrations, then you can't write a story.”
1993
On the Sexual Revolution:
“ . . . some very plausible stuff is being written by women in a way that most men are not doing . . . ”
1964
“. . . Appreciation of art is a moral erection; otherwise mere dilettantism. I believe sexuality is the basis of all friendship.”
2001
“Until recently, I thought ‘occasional poetry’ meant that you wrote only occasionally.”
1982
On Hemingway: “He always had trouble with plots because he wasn't so much filling out a plot as he was making a journey or progression, day by day.”
2003
“My father had osteomyelitis—his left arm was withered between his elbow and his shoulder. . . . But the amputation of a Stone Age man called Leaf, a stoneworker, does not relate to my father at all . . . ”
1968
Describing the effect of hallucinatory drugs on the creative process: “[It’s] terrific! That's at least what I'd like to say.”
2010
"It knocked you off your horse, taking LSD. I remember going to work that Monday, after taking LSD on Saturday, and it just seemed like a cardboard reality."