The privileged classes can afford psychoanalysis and whiskey. Whereas all we get is sermons and sour wine. This is manifestly unfair. I protest, silently.

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

We are what we have been told about ourselves. We are the sum of the messages we have received. The true messages. The false messages.

Goals incapable of attainment have driven many a man to despair, but despair is easier to get to than that -- one need merely look out of the window, for example.

The self cannot be escaped, but it can be, with ingenuity and hard work, distracted.

The aim of literature ... is the creation of a strange object covered with fur which breaks your heart.

Any genuine work of art generates new work.