It was a splendid summer morning and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.
I do not understand the capricious lewdness of the sleeping mind.
Avoid kneeling in unheated stone churches. Ecclesiastical dampness causes prematurely grey hair.
If there is anybody I detest, it is weak-minded sentimentalists-all those melancholy people who, out of an excess of sympathy for others, miss the thrill of their own essence and drift through life without identity, like a human fog, feeling sorry for everyone.
Fiction is experimentation; when it ceases to be that, it ceases to be fiction.
Without a reader, I cannot write. It's like a kiss: they cannot be done alone.