Life is, of course, terrible.

I viddied that thinking is for the gloopy ones and that the oomny ones use like inspiration and what Bog sends. For now it was lovely music that came to my aid.

The ideal reader of my novels is a lapsed Catholic and failed musician, short-sighted, colour-blind, auditorily biased, who has read the books that I have read.

Only in England is the perversion of language regarded as a victory for democracy.

I've always felt that English women had to be approached in a sisterly manner, rather than an erotic manner.

Americans will listen, but they do not care to read. War and Peace must wait for the leisure of retirement, which never really comes: meanwhile it helps to furnish the living room.

The unconscious mind has a habit of asserting itself in the afternoon.