Well, well, well, well. If it isn't fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thou globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou.

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

Any book has behind it all the other books that have been written.

Literature is all, or mostly, about sex.

He said it was artificial respiration, but now I find I am to have his child.

What's it going to be then, eh?

...the essential intention is the real sin. A man who cannot choose ceases to be a man.