A novelist who writes nothing for 10 years finds his reputation rising. Because I keep on producing books they say there must be something wrong with this fellow.

Accidents, try to change them - it's impossible. The accidental reveals man.

I can't help feeling wary when I hear anything said about the masses. First you take their faces from 'em by calling 'em the masses and then you accuse 'em of not having any faces.

There was no respect for youth when I was young, and now that I am old, there is no respect for age, I missed it coming and going.

But the point is, now, at this moment, or any moment, we're only cross-sections of our real selves. What we really are is the whole stretch of ourselves, all our time, and when we come to the end of this life, all those selves, all our time, will be us - the real you, the real me. And then perhaps we'll find ourselves in another time, which is only another kind of dream.

I fancy that the Hell of Too Many People would occupy a respectable place in the hierarchy of infernal regions.

To multiply your joy, count your blessings.