[W]hen I see men callously and cheerfully denying women the full use of their bodies, while insisting with sobs and howls on the satisfaction of their own, I simply can't find it heroic, or kind, or anything but pretty rotten and feeble.

I know what you're thinking - that anybody with proper sensitive feelings would rather scrub floors for a living. But I should scrub floors very badly, and I write detective stories rather well. I don't see why proper feelings should prevent me from doing my proper job.

How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks.

Heaven deliver us, what's a poet? Something that can't go to bed without making a song about it.

If it were not for the war, this war would suit me down to the ground.

The artist's knowledge of his own creative nature is often unconscious; he pursues his mysterious way of life in a strange innocence.

The popular mind has grown so confused that it is no longer able to receive any statement of fact except as an expression of personal feeling.