Those who write for lucre or fame are grosser than the cartel robbers, for they steal the genius of the people, which is its will to resist evil.

Everything ultimately fails, for we die, and that is either the penultimate failure or our most enigmatical achievement.

Of all the animals on earth, none is so brutish as man when he seeks the delirium of coition.

To write is a humiliation.

The earnings of a poet could be reckoned by a metaphysician rather than a bookkeeper.

There is a strange and mighty race of people called the Americans who are rapidly becoming the coldest in the world because of this cruel, man-eating idol, lucre.

We are uneasy with an affectionate man, for we are positive he wants something of us, particularly our love.