Writers on the subject of August Strindberg have hitherto omitted to mention that he could not write. ... Strindberg, who was neither a good nor a wise man, had a stroke of luck. He went mad. He lost the power of inhibition. Everything down to the pettiest suspicion that the dog had been given the leanest mutton chop, poured out of his lips. Men of his weakness and sensuality are usually, from their sheer brutishness, unable to express themselves. But Strindberg was mad and articulate. That is what makes him immortal.

Journalism: an ability to meet the challenge of filling the space.

Art and propaganda have this much connection, that if a propaganda makes art impossible, it is clearly damned.

The French use cooking as a means of self-expression, and this meal perfectly represented the personality of a cook who had spent the morning resting her unwashed chin on the edge of a tureen, pondering whether she should end her life immediately by plunging her head into her abominable soup.

Did St. Francis preach to the birds? Whatever for? If he really liked birds he would have done better to preach to the cats.

I have no faith in the sense of comforting beliefs which persuade me that all my troubles are blessings in disguise.

History sometimes acts as madly as heredity, and her most unpredictable performances are often her most glorious.