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

In my religion all believers would stop work at sundown and have a drink together.

The man who is master of his passions is Reason's slave.

Imagination is nostalgia for the past, the absent it is the liquid solution in which art develops the snapshot of reality.

Idleness is only a coarse name for my infinite capacity for living in the present.

Believing in Hell must distort every judgement on this life.

I review novels to make money, because it is easier for a sluggard to write an article a fortnight than a book a year, because the writer is soothed by the opiate of action, the crank by posing as a good journalist, and having an air hole. I dislike it. I do it and I am always resolving to give it up.