I hardly ever talk- words seem such a waste, and they are none of them true. No one has yet invented a language from my point of view.

I was in the death struggle with self: God and Satan fought for my soul those three long hours. God conquered — now I have only one doubt left — which of the twain was God?

Repeal all laws which assume that mankind is a herd of cattle

Man has the right . . . to play as he will . . . to think what he will: to speak what he will: to write what he will: to draw, paint, carve, etch, mould, build as he will: to dress as he will.

Your kiss is bitter with cocaine.

I was asked to memorise what I did not understand; and, my memory being so good, it refused to be insulted in that manner.

There are hardly half a dozen writers in England today who have not sold out to the enemy. Even when their good work has been a success, Mammon grips them and whispers: More money for more work.