Authors who moan with praise for their editors always seem to reek slightly of the Stockholm syndrome.

Every article and review and book that I have ever published has constituted an appeal to the person or persons to whom I should have talked before I dared to write it. I never launch any little essay without the hope—and the fear, because the encounter may also be embarrassing—that I shall draw a letter that begins, 'Dear Mr. Hitchens, it seems that you are unaware that…' It is in this sense that authorship is collaborative with 'the reader.' And there's no help for it: you only find out what you ought to have known by pretending to know at least some of it already.

It doesn't matter how obscure or arcane or esoteric your place of publication may be: some sweet law ensures that the person who should be scrutinizing your work eventually does do so.

When you write a book, you spend day after day scanning and identifying the trees. When you’re done, you have to step back and look at the forest.

It's interesting, isn't it? Being in the world.

Pada masa itu sering saya menjawab pertanyaan yang kadang-kadang diajukan kepada saya, "Mengapa Saudara menjadi pengarang?" dengan, "Karena saya tak dapat bekerja lain. Kalau saya bisa jadi importir atau eksportir, tentu saya akan menjadi importir atau eksportir.

Begitu seorang pengarang mati, tugasnya sebagai pengarang tidak dapat diambil alih orang lain. Sebaliknya, kalau dekan, camat, atau mantri polisi mati, dalam waktu singkat akan ada orang yang dapat dan mampu menggantikannya.