The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.

Let us simmer over our incalculable cauldron, our enthralling confusion, our hotchpotch of impulses, our perpetual miracle - for the soul throws up wonders every second. Movement and change are the essence of our being; rigidity is death; conformity is death; let us say what comes into our heads, repeat ourselves, contradict ourselves, fling out the wildest nonsense, and follow the most fantastic fancies without caring what the world does or thinks or says. For nothing matters except life.

Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order.

Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of adding day to day

To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination.

Nothing induces me to read a novel except when I have to make money by writing about it. I detest them.

A writer should give direct certainty; explanations are so much water poured into the wine.