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

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

We must select the illusion which appeals to our temperament, and embrace it with passion, if we want to be happy.

When even despair ceases to serve any creative purpose, then surely we are justified in suicide.

When we have ceased to love the stench of the human animal, either in others or in ourselves, then are we condemned to misery, and clear thinking can begin.

There are only three things which make life worth living: to be writing a tolerably good book, to be in a dinner party of six, and to be traveling south with someone whom your conscience permits you to love.

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?