Literature is a toil and a snare, a curse that bites deep.

They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

Build then the ship of death, for you must take the longest journey, to oblivion.

The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.

If only we could live two lives: the first in which to make one's mistakes, and the second in which to profit by them.

But I like the feel of men on things, while they're alive. There's a feel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with men's hands, all of them.

Reason is a supple nymph, and slippery as a fish by nature. She had as leave give her kiss to an absurdity any day, as to syllogistic truth. The absurdity may turn out truer.