Ye want to tell the plain truth all your life, woman, and speak straight; otherwise ye get to seeing double.

The sensuality, delicacy of literature does not exist for me; only the passion, energy and struggle… Most of my friends deplore this: they are always telling me what I should leave out in order to have success. But I know that nothing has more success in the end than an intelligent ferocity.

The more we know, the better our intuitions.

A mother! What are we worth really? They all grow up whether you look after them or not.

Life is nothing but rags and tags and filthy rags at that.

Socialist writers are made of sterner stuff than those who only let their characters steeplechase through trouble in order to comeout first in the happy ending of moral uplift.

Everyone likes the obscene; that is real life.