For the time being I have seen enough of living things, of dogs, of men, of all flabby masses which move spontaneously.

Imagination is not an empirical or superadded power of consciousness, it is the whole of consciousness as it realizes its freedom.

To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June

To choose not to choose is still to act.

I wanted my own words. But the ones I use have dragged through I don't know how many consciences.

Good digestions, the gray monotony of provincial life, and the boredom-ah the soul-destroying boredom-of long days of mild content.

That is exactly the writer's problem. What does literature stand for in a hungry world?