I love you, rotten, Delicious rottenness. ...wonderful are the hellish experiences, Orphic, delicate Dionysos of the Underworld.

The near touch of death may be a release into life; if only it will break the egoistic will, and release that other flow.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

The novel is the highest form of human expression so far attained. Why? Because it is so incapable of the absolute.

And that is ... how they are. So terribly physically all over one another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a tender caress of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness into each other's face.

Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.

Love is never a fulfillment. Life is never a thing of continuous bliss. There is no paradise. Fight and laugh and feel bitter and feel bliss: and fight again. Fight, fight. That is life.