For me, the novel is experience illumined by imagination.

The attraction of horror is a mental, or even an intellectual, excitement, but the fascination of the repulsive, so noticeable incontemporary writing, can spring openly from some rotted substance within our civilization.

... the novel, as a living force, if not as a work of art, owes an incalculable debt to what we call, mistakenly, the new psychology, to Freud, in his earlier interpretations, and more truly, I think, to Jung.

What was time itself but the bloom, the sheath enfolding experience? Within time, and with time alone, there was life - the gleam, the quiver, the heartbeat, the immeasurable joy and anguish of being.

It is only by knowing how little life has in store for us that we are able to look on the bright side and avoid disappointment.

I haven't much opinion of words. They're apt to set fire to a dry tongue, that's what I say.

[Reformers] might be classified as a distinct species having eyes in the back of their heads.