Wild inside; raging, writhing—yes, "writhing" was the word, writhing with desire. But outwardly he was hopelessly tame; outwardly—baa, baa, baa.

After all, what is reading but a vice, like drink or venery or any other form of excessive self-indulgence? One reads to tickle and amuse one's mind; one reads, above all, to prevent oneself thinking.

Both of us victims of the same twentieth-century plague. Not the Black Death, this time; the Gray Life.

People intoxicate themselves with work so they won't see how they really are.

Good is that which makes for unity. Evil is that which makes for separateness.

People will insist on treating the mons Veneris as though it were Mount Everest. Too silly!

You should hurry up and acquire the cigar habit. It's one of the major happinesses. And so much more lasting than love, so much less costly in emotional wear and tear.