Some books seem like a key to unfamiliar rooms in one’s own castle.

The true way goes over a line that, rather than spanning heights, is hardly above the ground. It appears more decidedly to make one trip than to be walked along.

In theory there is a possibility of perfect happiness: To believe in the indestructible element within one, and not to strive towards it.

I believe that we should read only those books that bite and sting us. If a book we are reading does not rouse us with a blow to the head, then why read it?

My guiding principle is this: Guilt is never to be doubted.

All I am is literature, and I am not able or willing to be anything else.

May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.