It is a curious thing how poets tend to become ascetics.... Even a debauch for them is a self-flagellation. They go on the loose in cruelty against themselves, admitting that they are pandering to, and despising, the lower self.

That is your trick, your bit of filthy magic: invisibility, and the anaesthetic power to deaden my attention in your direction.

There's always the hyena of morality at the garden gate, and the real wolf at the end of the street.

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.

Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't.

You can have your cake and eat it. But my God, it will go rotten inside you.

That is almost the whole of Russian literature: the phenomenal coruscations of the souls of quite commonplace people.