I never know when I sit down, just what I am going to write. I make no plan; it just comes, and I don't know where it comes from.

Sex is our deepest form of consciousness. It is utterly non-ideal, non-mental. It is pure blood-consciousness.... It is the consciousness of the night, when the soul is almost asleep.

Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.

They were evidently small men, all wind and quibbles, flinging out their chuffy grain to us with far less interest than a farm-wife feels as she scatters corn to her fowls.

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

Any inhibition must be wrong, since inevitably in the end it causes neurosis and insanity.

One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease.