... the mere thought of going near a man who is not mellowly pickled, and whose breath reeks of his native fleshy self, is squeamishly unpalatable to me.

I don't trust sentimentality in men; it goes with tyranny; you can't have one without the other.

I am unable, mentally incapable, of relating the dead thing, the broken body refusing to divulge why or where the occupant has gone, to the thing that was alive.

If happiness comes at all: which is by no means prearranged; it comes by the way, while you are seeking for something else. Something outside yourself, beyond yourself: in a brief absorption of self-forgetfulness.

Love can bear anything better than ridicule.

There is a great gulf between the really creative person and normal people. The totally creative person does not have the rest of his life in proper proportion.

Sex divorced from love is the thief of personal dignity.