It is my fate and perhaps my temperament to sign agreements with fools.

When that strange race nears the dust and is condemned as untouchable, then nature remembers the physical perfection that she accomplished elsewhere, and throws out a god-not many, but one here and there, to prove to society how little its categories impress her.

The strong are so stupid.

Belfastas uncivilised as ever--savage black mothers in houses of dark red brick, friendly manufacturers too drunk to entertain you when you arrive. It amuses me till I get tired.

I have always found writing pleasant and don't understand what people mean by 'throes of creation.'

Outside the arch, always there seemed another arch. And beyond the remotest echo, a silence.

Freedom does not guarantee masterpieces.