I think writers like old cities and are made very nervous by new cities.

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

The best way to live is by not knowing what will happen to you at the end of the day.

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.

The much heaves and palpitates. It is multidirectional and has a mayor.

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

And I sat there getting drunker and drunker and more in love and more in love...And you can never touch a girl in the same way more than once, twice, or another number of times however much you may wish to hold, wrap, or otherwise fix her hand, or look, or some other quality, or incident, known to you previously.