Psychoanalysis is the confession without absolution.

Love, love, love – all the wretched cant of it, masking egotism, lust, masochism, fantasy under a mythology of sentimental postures, a welter of self-induced miseries and joys, blinding and masking the essential personalities in the frozen gestures of courtship, in the kissing and the dating and the desire, the compliments and the quarrels which vivify its barrenness.

Man made one grave mistake: in answer to vaguely reformist and humanitarian agitation he admitted women to politics and the professions. The conservatives who saw this as the undermining of our civilisation and the end of the state and marriage were right after all; it is time for the demolition to begin.

Perhaps women have always been in closer contact with reality than men: it would seem to be the just recompense for being deprived of idealism.

I find that those men who are personally most polite to women, who call them angels and all that, cherish in secret the greatest contempt for them.

The house wife is an unpaid employee in her husband's house in return for the security of being a permanent employee.

No sex is better than bad sex.