There is, happily, no limit to the faith of human nature in believing what it wants to believe.

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.

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.

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.

Anyone who has attempted to create knows the hellishness of it, which consists in the final inescapability from it. Knows that anything, however deadly humdrum to drug the senses, is preferable to it. Knows the gigantic effort to get started on the boundless, unwieldy, shapeless material; the forest of hesitations; of what to keep and what to throw out; the running-out terror and reluctance in one of finishing.

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