Everything is a dangerous drug except reality which is unendurable.

A writer is in danger of allowing his talent to dull who lets more than a year go past without finding himself in his rightful place of composition, the small single unluxurious retreat of the twentieth century, the hotel bedroom.

Slums may well be breeding grounds of crime, but middle class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.

Happiness lies in the fulfillment of the spirit through the body.

When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.

All charming people have something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others.

Whom the gods wish to destroy they first call promising.