Art is the final cunning of the human soul which would rather do anything than face the gods.

Language is a machine for making falsehoods.

There is nothing like early promiscuous sex for dispelling life's bright mysterious expectations.

Every artist is an unhappy lover. And unhappy lovers want to tell their story.

Happiness is a matter of one's most ordinary everyday mode of consciousness being busy and lively and unconcerned with self.

The human soul is not framed for continued proximity, and the result of this enforced neighbourhood is often an appalling loneliness for which the rules of the game forbid assuagement.

Food is a profound subject and one, incidentally, about which no writer lies.