If you try to nail anything down, in the novel, either it kills the novel, or the novel gets up and walks away with the nail.

Sing then the core of dark and absolute oblivion where the soul at last is lost in utter peace.

Morality in the novel is the trembling instability of the balance. When the novelist puts his thumb in the scale, to pull down the balance to his own predilection, that is immorality.

It is so much more difficult to live with one's body than with one's soul. One's body is so much more exacting: what it won't have it won't have, and nothing can make bitter into sweet.

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

We don't exist unless we are deeply and sensually in touch with that which can be touched but not known.

But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.