The novel can't compete with cars, the movies, television, and liquor. A guy who's had a good feed and tanked up on good wine gives his old lady a kiss after supper and his day is over. Finished.

Philosophizing is simply one way of being afraid, a cowardly pretense that doesn't get you anywhere.

The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.

When it becomes really impossible to get away and sleep, then the will to live evaporates of its own accord.

There is no rest for the humble except in despising the great, whose only thought of the people is inspired by self-interest or sadism.

One can't relive one's life. Forgiveness is not what's difficult; one's always too ready to forgive. And it does no good, that's obvious.

Living, just by itself - what a dirge that is! Life is a classroom and Boredom's the usher, there all the time to spy on you.