Man has little needs and deeper needs. We have fallen into the mistake of living from our little needs till we have almost lost our deeper needs in a sort of madness.

Any novel of importance has a purpose. If only the "purpose" be large enough, and not at outs with the passional inspiration.

If you cut a thing up, of course it will smell. Hence, nothing raises such an infernal stink at last, as human psychology.

Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art -- or almost the only stuff.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.

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

The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?