Literature ceases to be literature when it commits itself to moral uplift; it becomes moral philosophy or some such dull thing.

For no man is damned precisely because God hath not chosen him, because he is not elected, but because he is a sinner, and doth wilfully refuse the means of grace offered.

And to all others in this story profound shooms of lip music brrrrrr. And they can kiss my sharries.

When a man cannot chose, he ceases to be a man.

Literature is all, or mostly, about sex.

The practice of fiction can be dangerous: it puts ideas into the head of the world.

Life is a wretched gray Saturday, but it has to be lived through.