Blessed tree and blessed birds, that were to be neither saved nor damned.

Come with uncle and hear all proper. Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones...you are invited!

Put it off for a bit. All life is putting off. Well, not entirely.

Art is rare and sacred and hard work, and there ought to be a wall of fire around it.

Suddenly, I viddied what I had to do, and what I had wanted to do, and that was to do myself in; to snuff it, to blast off for ever out of this wicked, cruel world. One moment of pain perhaps and, then, sleep forever, and ever and ever.

A novelist should not be too intelligent either, although... he may be permitted to be an intellectual.

Death comes along like a gas bill one can't pay.