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.

When the desire is on for one particular person, nobody else will do.

A lot of warm vulgarity is incomparably preferable to a little bit of pinched niceness

My bitterness is not an abstract substance, it is as solid as a Christmas cake; I can cut it in slices and hand it round and there is still plenty left, for tomorrow.

there is no gaiety as gay as the gaiety of grief.

Sex divorced from love is the thief of personal dignity.

The wretched Artist himself is alternatively the lowest worm that ever crawled when no fire is in him; or the loftiest God that ever sand when the fire is going.