Hate is the consequence of fear; we fear something before we hate; a child who fears noises becomes the man who hates them.

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

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

Like the bee its sting, the promiscuous leave behind them in each encounter something of themselves by which they are made to suffer.

Most people do not believe in anything very much and our greatest poetry is given to us by those who do.

Dining out is a vice, a dissipation of spirit punished by remorse. We eat, drink, and talk a little too much, abuse all our friends, belch out our literary preferences and are egged on by accomplices in the audience to acts of mental exhibitionism. Such evenings cannot fail to diminish those who take part in them. They end on Monkey Hill.

As repressed sadists are supposed to become policemen or butchers so those with an irrational fear of life become publishers.