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.

Perhaps our only sickness is to desire a truth which we cannot bear rather than to rest content with the fictions we manufacture out of each other.

Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.

Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.

Life is like a cucumber. One minute it's in your hand, the next it's up you ass.

Who invented the human heart, I wonder? Tell me, and then show me the place where he was hanged.

The appalling thing is the degree of charity women are capable of. You see it all the time... love lavished on absolute fools. Love's a charity ward, you know.