Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.

Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.

I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that passes down here for real life.

Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.

The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.

I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.

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.