A critic is a lug-worm in the liver of literature.

Truth disappears with the telling of it.

after all the work of the philosophers on his soul and the doctors on his body, what can we really say we know about a man? That he is, when all is said and done, just a passage for liquids and solids, a pipe of flesh.

Love is like trench warfare - you cannot see the enemy, but you know he is there and that it is wiser to keep your head down.

I suppose the secret of his success is in his tremendous idleness which almost approaches the supernatural.

For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.

The memory of man is as old as misfortune