I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.

Only ambitious nonentities and hearty mediocrities exhibit their rough drafts. It's like passing around samples of sputum.

Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.

A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.

Who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by our discontinuing a romp?

Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts.

We all have such fateful objects -- it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another -- carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of specific significance for us: here shall John always stumble; there shall Jane's heart always break.