See the moon? It hates us.

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

Maybe writing can't be taught, but editing can be taught—prayer, fasting and self-mutilation.

I believe that because I had obtained a wife who was made up of wife-signs (beauty, charm, softness, perfume, cookery) I had found love.

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.

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

Faint equivalents can sometimes be found ... . Or it can be rendered obliquely-an adolescent's mental image of his or her parents making love, which must be something on the order of crocodiles mating.