In the history of art there are periods when bread seems so beautiful that it nearly gets into museums.

Women have invented nothing in all that, except the men who were born as male babies and grew up to be men big enough to be killed fighting.

Isadore [Duncan], who had an un-American genius for art, for organizing love, maternity, politics and pedagogy on a great personal scale, had also an un-American genius for grandeur.

When I hear a writer say that they ‘put in a call,’ I want to pull my hair out.

Proust has been dead since 1922, yet the annual appearance of his posthumous works has left him, to the reader, alive. Now there is nothing left to publish. Five years after his interment, Proust seems dead for the first time.

Genius is a talent only for living, those who possess it have little gift for dying.

The stench of human wreckage in which the Nazi regime finally sank down to defeat has been the most shocking fact of modern times.