There are three cures for ennui: sleep, drink and travel.

You have to have something vicious in you to be a creative writersomething old-adamish, incompatible to the "ordinary world.

The whole point about the true unconscious is that it is all the time moving forward, beyond the range of its own fixed laws or habits. It is no good trying to superimpose an ideal nature upon the unconscious.

The grim frost is at hand, when apples will fall thick, almost thunderous, on the hardened earth.

Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spiraling round for terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness that outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and himself, infinitesimal, at the core of nothingness, and yet not nothing.

Now the only decent way to get something done is to get it done by somebody who quite likes doing it.

The human soul needs actual beauty even more than bread.