How few writers can prostitute all their powers!
We are all like Scheherazade's husband, in that we want to know what happens next.
The so called white races are really pinko-grey.
A work of art is never finished. It is merely abandoned.
Outside the arch, always there seemed another arch. And beyond the remotest echo, a silence.
I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness.