One should never go back to a place one has loved; for, however, rough the going forward is, it is better than the snuffing out-of-love return.

... 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.

anybody who drinks seriously is poor: so poor, poor, extra poor, me.

In America they make too much fuss of poets; in London they make too little.

Between threading a needle and raving insanity is the smallest eye in creation.

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.

One should never go back to a place one has loved; for, however, rough the going forward is, it is better than the snuffing out-of-love return.