One forges one's style on the terrible anvil of daily deadlines.

There are two men inside the artist, the poet and the craftsman. One is born a poet. One becomes a craftsman.

It all seemed a hollow sham now - that strict code, that conscientious virtue that condemned her to the sterile joys of pious women! No, no, she'd had enough of that; she wanted to live!

These young people naturally grow up with ideas different from ours, for they are born for times when we shall no longer be here

Truth is on the march, and nothing will stop it.

Respectable people... What bastards!

I am spending delightful afternoons in my garden, watching everything living around me. As I grow older, I feel everything departing, and I love everything with more passion.