A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual, and only the individual reader is important to me. I don't give a damn for the group, the community, the masses, and so forth.

Dostoevky's lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Freudian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity - all this is difficult to admire.

Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

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

He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.

Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveler's helmet. Stay inside or you perish.

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.