I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.

I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.

And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.

I have never seen a more lucid, more lonely, better balanced mad mind than mine.

We are most artistically caged.

My principal failing as a writer is the lack of spontaneity; the nuisance of parallel thoughts, second thoughts, third thoughts; inability to express myself properly in any language unless I compose every damned sentence in my bath, in my mind, at my desk.

The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.