Existence in itself, taken at its least miraculous, is a miracle.

There is no such thing as conversation. It is an illusion. There are intersecting monologues, that is all.

Motherhood is neither a duty nor a privilege, but simply the way that humanity can satisfy the desire for physical immortality and triumph over the fear of death.

Here lies the real terror in the international war of ideologies; that a city knows not whom it entertains.

... A La Recherche du Temps Perdu is like a beautiful hand with long fingers reaching out to pluck a perfect fruit, without error,for the accurate eye knows well it is growing just there on the branch, while Ulysses is the fumbling of a horned hand in darkness after a doubted jewel.

It would be no loss to the world if most of the writers now writing had been strangled at birth.

Whatever happens, never forget that people would rather be led to perdition by a man, than to victory by a woman.