Art is a profession, not a shrine.

History ... with its long, leisurely, gentlemanly labors, the books arriving by post, the cards to be kept and filed, the sections to be copied, the documents to be checked, is the ideal pursuit for the New England mind.

Mothers born on relief have their babies on relief. Nothingness, truly, seems to be the condition of these New York people. They are nomads going from one rooming house to another, looking for a toilet that functions.

[On sociability in Italy:] You may be a hermit or an innkeeper.

While you are living, part of you has slipped away to the cemetery.

Canadians, do not vomit on me!

Now, my novel begins. No, now I begin my novel—and yet I cannot decide whether to call myself I or she.