I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.

Literary confessors are contemptible, like beggars who exhibit their sores for money, but not so contemptible as the public that buys their books.

It is, for example, axiomatic that we should all think of ourselves as being more sensitive than other people because, when we are insensitive in our dealings with others, we cannot be aware of it at the time: conscious insensitivity is a self-contradiction.

A false enchantment can all too easily last a lifetime.

In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.

A person incapable of imaging another world than given to him by his senses would be subhuman, and a person who identifies his imaginary world with the world of sensory fact has become insane.

A real book is not one that we read, but one that reads us.