In 'real life' everything is diluted; in the novel everything is condensed.

One's sentiments -- call them that -- one's fidelities are so instinctive that one hardly knows they exist: only when they are betrayed or, worse still, when one betrays them does one realize their power.

Almost everyone admits to hunger during the Opera.... Hunger is so exalting that during a last act you practically levitate.

Not only is there no question of solitude, but in the long run we may not choose our company.

The innocent are so few that two of them seldom meet - when they do meet, their victims lie strewn all round.

First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context.

Solitary and farouche people don't have relationships; they are quite unrelatable. If you and I were capable of being altogether house-trained and made jolly, we should be nicer people, but not writers.