Freudism and all it has tainted with its grotesque implications and methods, appear to me to be one of the vilest deceits practiced by people on themselves and on others. I reject it utterly, along with a few other medieval items still adored by the ignorant, the conventional, or the very sick.

It was an interesting thing to do. Why did I write any of my books, after all? For the sake of the pleasure, for the sake of the difficulty. I have no social purpose, no moral message; I've no general ideas to exploit, I just like composing riddles with elegant solutions.

I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth.

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.

Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.