Every man has a secret ambition: To outsmart horses, fish and women.

His money is twice tainted: taint yours and taint mine.

Eventually, I sickened of people, myself included, who didn't think enough of themselves to make something of themselves- people who did only what they had to and never what they could have done. I learned from them the infected loneliness that comes at the end of every misspent day. I knew I could do better.

Is it, perhaps, possible that there are two kinds of Civilization-one for home consumption and one for the heathen market?

I don't like to commit myself about heaven and hell - you see, I have friends in both places.

Wherein lies a poet's claim to originality? That he invents his incidents? No. That he was present when his episodes had their birth? No. That he was first to repeat them? No. None of these things has any value. He confers on them their only originality that has any value, and that is his way of telling them.

It is no use to keep private information which you can't show off.