There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.

The river of truth is always splitting up into arms that reunite. Islanded between them, the inhabitants argue for a lifetime as to which is the mainstream.

Slums may well be breeding grounds of crime, but middle class suburbs are incubators of apathy and delirium.

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.

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

A lazy person, whatever the talents with which he set out, will have condemned himself to second-hand thoughts and to second-rate friends.

Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.