I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy!

Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.

Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.

The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.