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.

The friendships which last are those wherein each friend respects the other's dignity to the point of not really wanting anything from him.

Everyone has the right to express an opinion. No one has the right to be listened to.

The Expulsion from Eden is an act of vindictive womanish spite; the Fall of Man, as recounted in the Bible, comes nearer to the Fall of God.

The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.

The shock, for an intelligent writer, of discovering for the first time that there are people younger than himself who think him stupid is severe.

We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.