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.

Mr. James Joyce is a great man who is entirely without taste.

A great many quite good plays could be performed with rhythmic howls in the place of dialogue and lose almost nothing by the change.

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.

The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning.

The memory, experiencing and re-experiencing, has such power over one's mere personal life, that one has merely lived.

Nobody likes having salt rubbed into their wounds, even if it is the salt of the earth.