We should nourish our souls on the dew of Poesy, and manure them as well.

How can they say my life is not a success? Have I not for more than sixty years got enough to eat and escaped being eaten?

If it's to be, it's up to me.

We need new friends; some of us are cannibals who have eaten their old friends up; others must have ever-renewed audiences before whom to re-enact the ideal version of their lives.

The notion of making money by popular work, and then retiring to do good work, is the most familiar of all the devil's traps for artists.

A slight touch of friendly malice and amusement towards those we love keeps our affections for them from turning flat.

Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.