The novel will never die, but it will keep changing and evolving and taking different shapes.

In a corner of the churchyard grew a plantation of white violets, enormously plump and prosperous-looking. ... I saw the dead stretched out under me in the earth, feeding these flowers with a thin milk drawn from their bones.

One should always act from one's inner sense of rhythm.

But poetry is not to be lived, except for the few to whom it is more important than self-preservation.

It's the thought that counts.

How long, I wonder, will ignorance spell purity and knowledge shame?

[On Ian Fleming:] The trouble with Ian is that he gets off with women because he can't get on with them.