The Spanish wine, my God, it is foul, catpiss is champagne compared, this is the sulphurous urination of some aged horse.

I like to write when I feel spiteful; it's like having a good sneeze.

It's bad taste to be wise all the time, like being at a perpetual funeral.

Vitally, the human race is dying. It is like a great uprooted tree, with its roots in the air. We must plant ourselves again in the universe.

We have lost the art of living, and in the most important science of all, the science of daily life, the science of behavior, we are complete ignoramuses. We have psychology instead.

Beauty is an experience, nothing else. It is not a fixed pattern or an arrangement of features. It is something felt, a glow or a communicated sense of fineness.

There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.