My unconscious knows more about the consciousness of the psychologist than his consciousness knows about my unconscious.

It is the style of idealism to console itself for the loss of something old with the ability to gape at something new.

Stupidity gets up early; that is why events are accustomed to happening in the morning.

When I don't make any progress, it is because I have bumped into the wall of language. Then I draw back with a bloody head. And would like to go on.

What the teachers digest, the pupils eat.

Journalists write because they have nothing to say, and have something to say because they write.

I have decided many a stylistic problem first by my head, then by heads or tails.