And I sort of frowned about that, thinking. 'You felt ill this afternoon,' he said, 'because you're getting better. When we're healthy we respond to the presence of the hateful with fear and nausea. You're becoming healthy, that's all.

I mean, there's little enough in this life, really, and you only find it worth living for the odd moments, and if you think you're going to have those odd moments again, then it makes life wonderful and have a meaning.

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

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

All art preserves mysteries which aesthetic philosophers tackle in vain.

All novels are experimental.

Language exists less to record the actual than to liberate the imagination.