When an arguer argues dispassionately he thinks only of the argument.

Never pretend that the things you haven't got are not worth having.

Why, he wondered, did people who had been asleep always want to make out that they were extremely wide-awake?

For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

But words have been used too often; touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.

People ask me why I write. I write to find out what I know.