That passed the time. It would have passed in any case. Yes, but not so rapidly.

I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.

I had little talent for happiness.

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

There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.

Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.

The essential doesn't change.