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

He [George Orwell] would not blow his nose without moralising on conditions in the handkerchief industry.

Believing in Hell must distort every judgement on this life.

The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication.

It is the fear of middle-age in the young, of old-age in the middle-aged, which is the prime cause of infidelity, that infallible rejuvenator.

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

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