Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay.

It takes a genius to whine appealingly.

The history of my life is the history of the struggle between an overwhelming urge to write and a combination of circumstances bent on keeping me from it.

Even when everything seems rotten you can't trust that judgment. It's the sum of all your judgments that counts.

It was too late - everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.

A writer's temperament is continually making him do things he can never repair.

Very few of the people who accentuate the futility of life remark the futility of themselves. Perhaps they think that in proclaiming the evil of living they somehow salvage their own worth from the ruin - but they don't, even you and I.