There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.

Nothing is more real than nothing.

How long have I been here, what a question, I've often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.

Silence, yes, but what silence! For it is all very fine to keep silence, but one has also to consider the kind of silence one keeps.