Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.

Hate is crystallized fear, fear's dividend, fear objectivized. We hate what we fear and so where hate is, fear will be lurking.

Most of the beauty of women evaporates when they achieve domestic happiness at the price of their independence.

Melancholy and remorse forms the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality.

There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.

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.

Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.