Oh the piercing sadness of life in the midst of its ordinariness!

Literature could be said to be a sort of disciplined technique for arousing certain emotions.

How different each death is, and yet it leads us into the self-same country, that country which we inhabit so rarely, where we see the worthlessness of what we have long pursued and will so soon return to pursuing.

We must live by the light of our own self-satisfaction, through that secret vital busy inwardness which is even more remarkable than our reason.

All art deals with the absurd and aims at the simple. Good art speaks truth, indeed is truth, perhaps the only truth.

A death is the most terrible of facts.

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