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.

... people who don't want something are less likely to get it than people who do want something.

The older women were Sunbeams and I guess we were Cherubs or Lambs, but our mothers were Nightingales.

I act as a sponge. I soak it up and squeeze it out in ink every two weeks.

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.