Daytime sleep is a cursed slumber from which one wakes in despair.

Every man needs two women: a quiet home-maker, and a thrilling nymph.

Anything that consoles is fake.

Trains induce such terrible anxiety. They image the possibility of total and irrevocable failure. They are also dirty, rackety, packed with strangers, an object lesson in the foul contingency of life: the talkative fellow-traveller, the possibility of children.

Art is brief. (Not in a temporal sense.) [...] Words are for concealment. Art is concealment.

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

Art and psychoanalysis give shape and meaning to life and that is why we adore them, but life as it is lived has no shape and meaning.