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

Men are too unstable to be just; they are crabbed because they have not passed water at the usual time, or testy because they have not been stroked or praised.

A painter can hang his pictures, but a writer can only hang himself.

We are always talking about being together, and yet whatever we invent destroys the family, and makes us wild, touchless beasts feeding on technicolor prairies and rivers.

Men are mad most of their lives; few live sane, fewer die so. The acts of people are baffling unless we realize that their wits are disordered. Man is driven to justice by his lunacy.

The bad poet is a toady mimicking nature.

To write is a humiliation.