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

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

Writing is conscience, scruple, and the farming of our ancestors.

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

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

We can only write well about our sins because it is too difficult to recall a virtuous act or even whether it was the result of good or evil motives.

Intellectual sodomy, which comes from the refusal to be simple about plain matters, is as gross and abundant today as sexual perversion and they are nowise different from one another.