The best technique is none at all.

There is nothing in itself which is wrong or evil not even murder.

We live in the mind, in ideas, in fragments. We no longer drink in the wild outer music of the streets - we remember only.

The best stories I have heard were pointless, the best books those whose plot I can never remember, the best individuals those whom I never get anywhere with. Though it has been practised on me time and again I never cease to marvel how it happens that with certain individuals whom I know, within a few minutes after greeting them we are embarked on an endless voyage comparable in feeling and trajectory only to the deep middle dream which the practised dreamer slips into like a bone slips into its sockets

All the men she's been with and now you, just you, and the barges going by, masts and hulls, the whole damned current of life flowing through you, through her, through all the guys behind you and after you, the flowers and the birds and the sun streaming in and the fragrance of it choking you, annihilating you.

For the artist to attach himself to his work, or identify himself with it, is suicidal.

There's something perverse about women...they're all masochists at heart.