That man has missed something who has never left a brothel at sunrise feeling like throwing himself into the river out of pure disgust.

Writing this book I am like a man playing the piano with lead balls attached to his knuckles.

The style, which is something I take to heart, is getting on my nerves horribly. It frustrates and torments me. I have days when Iam sick about it and nights when it gives me a fever. The more I go at it the more I find myself incapable of conveying the Idea.

I am finding it very hard to get my novel started. I suffer from stylistic abscesses; and sentences keep itching without coming to a head.

On certain occasions art can shake very ordinary spirits, and whole worlds can be revealed by its clumsiest interpreters.

There is no truth. There is only perception.

Stupidity consists in wanting to reach conclusions. We are a thread, and we want to know the whole cloth.