You become writer by writing. It is a yoga.

Society presses upon us all the time. The progress of the last half century is the progress of the frog out of his well.

Death and its associates, after the initial shock, produce callousness.

The difference between a simpleton and an intelligent man, according to the man who is convinced that he is of the latter category, is that the former wholeheartedly accepts all things that he sees and hears while the latter never admits anything except after a most searching scrutiny. He imagines his intelligence to be a sieve of closely woven mesh through which nothing but the finest can pass.

You become writer by writing. It is a yoga.

A profound unmitigated loneliness is the only truth of life.

Friendship was another illusion like love, though it did not reach the same mad heights. People pretended that they were friends, when the fact was they were brought together by force of circumstances.