There are many who dare not kill themselves for fear of what the neighbours will say.

Nothing dates like hate and in literature a little of it goes a very long way.

While thoughts exist, words are alive and literature becomes an escape, not from, but into living.

Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster.

In a perfect union the man and woman are like a strung bow. Who is to say whether the string bends the bow, or the bow tightens the string?

The true work of art is the one which the seventh wave of genius throws up the beach where the undertow of time cannot drag it back.

Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.