Now, here is the point about the self: it is insatiable. It is always, always hankering. It is what you might call rapacious to a fault. The great flaming mouth to the thing is never in this world going to be stuff full.

Art is not difficult because it wishes to be difficult, rather because it wishes to be art. However much the writer might long to be straightforward, these virtues are no longer available to him. He discovers that in being simple, honest, straightforward, nothing much happens.

Succeed! It has been done, and with a stupidity that can astound the most experienced.

The task is not so much to solve problems as to propose questions.

I don’t think you can talk about progress in art—movement, but not progress.

See the moon? It hates us.

Endings are elusive, middles are nowhere to be found, but worst of all is to begin, to begin, to begin.