Surely every one realizes, at some point along the way, that he is capable of living a far better life than the one he has chosen.

Next to love friendship, in my opinion, is the most valuable thing life has to offer.

It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom. I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, i thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it. I am. There are no more books to be written, thank God.

Life moves on, whether we act as cowards or heroes.

What holds the world together, as I have learned from bitter experience, is sexual intercourse.

Men are not suffering from the lack of good literature, good art, good theatre, good music, but from that which has made it impossible for these to become manifest. In short, they are suffering from the silent shameful conspiracy (the more shameful since it is unacknowledged) which has bound them together as enemies of art and artists.

Analysis brings no curative powers in its train; it merely makes us conscious of the existence of an evil, which, oddly enough, is consciousness.