To despise all effort is the greatest effort of all.

The supposed great misery of our century is the lack of time.

Thomas Beecham was a pompous little band-master who stood against everything creative in the art of his time.

Most marriages recognize this paradox: Passion destroys passion; we want what puts an end to wanting what we want.

I must fight with my weapons. Not his. Not selfishness and brutality and shame and resentment.

It was too exactly as imagined to be true. But I felt as gladly and expectantly disorientated, as happily and alertly alone, as Alice in Wonderland.

My hatred of crowds, the obviousness of crowds, of anything en masse. Is this why I like little-known books? A general desire to escape the main world.