I think someday you're going to be a great writer," he said. "But" he added maliciously, "first you'll have to suffer a bit. I mean really suffer, because you don't know what the word means yet. You only think you've suffered. You've got to fall in love first.

The light of Greece opened my eyes, penetrated my pores, expanded my whole being.

When spring comes to Paris the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise.

Man, as man, has never realized himself. The greater part of him, his potential being, has always been submerged. What is history if not the endless story of his repeated failures?

Art is only a means to life, the life more abundant. It merely points the way.

And the books you write. They're not you. They're not me sitting here, this Henry Miller. They belong to someone else. It's terrible. You can never rest.

When you know what men are capable of you marvel neither at their sublimity nor their baseness. There are no limits in either direction apparently.