I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.

Now stiff on a pillar with a phallic air nelson stylites in Trafalgar square reminds the British what once they were.

Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.

I am just a refugee from the long slow toothache of English life. It is terrible to love life so much you can hardly breathe!

I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

Poverty is a great cutter-off and riches a great shutter-off.

I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.