I conclude that there is as much sense in nonsense as there is nonsense in sense.

Senseless violence is a prerogative of youth, which has much energy but little talent for the constructive.

Elgar is not manic enough to be Russian, not witty or pointilliste enough to be French, not harmonically simple enough to be Italian and not stodgy enough to be German. We arrive at his Englishry by pure elimination.

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

Beckett does not believe in God, though he seems to imply that God has committed an unforgivable sin by not existing.

Literature is all, or mostly, about sex.

Life is, of course, terrible.