And yet I am happy. Yes, happy. I swear. I swear that I am happy...What does it matter that I am a bit cheap, a bit foul, and that no one appreciates all the remarkable things about me-my fantasy, my erudition, my literary gift...I am happy that I can gaze at myself, for any man is absorbing-yes, really absorbing! ... I am happy-yes, happy!

...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.

Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.

I think it is all a matter of love.

Art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.

Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.