If I had died it would have been even better for you political bratchnies, would it not, pretending and treacherous droogs as you are.' But all that came out was er er er.

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

As we grow older, the memories of early life brighten, those of maturity and senescence grow dim and confused.

It seems priggish or pollyannaish to deny that my intention in writing the work was to titillate the nastier propensities of my readers. My own healthy inheritance of original sin comes out in the book and I enjoyed raping and ripping by proxy. It is the novelist’s innate cowardice that makes him depute to imaginary personalities the sins that he is too cautious to commit for himself.

With both agents and publishers hungry for bestsellers, literature will have to end up as a cottage industry.

But, brothers, this biting of their toe-nails over what is the CAUSE of badness is what turns me into a fine laughing malchick. They don't go into what is the cause of GOODNESS, so why of the other shop?

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