American novelist and short story writer (1911–1995)
Walter Braden "Jack" Finney (born John Finney; October 2, 1911 – November 14, 1995) was an American author. His best-known works are science fiction and thrillers.
Some writers are belligerent about critics, some are sullen and hostile, but Max was just contemptuous. I’m sure he believed that all writers outranked all critics—well or badly, they actually do the deed which we only sit and carp about.
But it seems too bad—this universal craving to escape what could be a rich, productive, happy world. We live on a planet well able to provide a decent life for every soul on it, which is all ninety-nine of a hundred human beings ask. Why in the world can’t we have it?
You had no criminal record, not with us, anyway, but that didn’t tell me anything either; most people have no criminal record, and at least half of them ought to.
I was pleased at the thought of a girl with a hope chest full of power tools.
“Why didn’t you tell Doug about it, Mr. Nordstrum?” “Because he’s a fool. Has it all figured out what he’s going to believe for the rest of his life; it takes a fool to do that.
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He’s about seventy-one, a retired lawyer with a reputation for grouchiness. But it’s less grouchiness, I think, than a simple unwillingness to put up with anyone who doesn’t interest him.
Haven’t you ever wished it were somehow possible to cross-examine an absolute stranger about something none of your business but damned interesting all the same? Well, think it over—if you’re a reporter, you can. There’s no law says it has to be printed.