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

And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.

There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.

I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny.

No difference exists between American and European manners. A proletarian from Chicago can be just as Philistine as an English duke.

Literature, real literature, must not be gulped down like some potion which may be good for the heart or good for the brain—the brain, that stomach of the soul. Literature must be taken and broken to bits, pulled apart, squashed—then its lovely reek will be smelt in the hollow of the palm, it will be munched and rolled upon the tongue with relish; then, and only then, its rare flavor will be appreciated at its true worth and the broken and crushed parts will again come together in your mind and disclose the beauty of a unity to which you have contributed something of your own blood.

Look at this tangle of thorns.