The whole business of your life overwhelms you when you live alone. One's stupefied by it. To get rid of it you try to daub some of it off on to people who come to see you, and they hate that. To be alone trains one for death.

Lots of men are like that, their artistic leanings never go beyond a weakness for shapely thighs.

Life is filigree work. What is written clearly is not worth much, it's the transparency that counts.

To hell with reality! I want to die in music, not in reason or in prose.

My trouble is insomnia. If I had always slept properly, I'd never have written a line.

The poetry of heroism appeals irresistibly to those who don't go to a war, and even more to those whom the war is making enormously wealthy. It's always so.

Life must go on, even if it's no joke...just pretend to believe in the future.