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.

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There is nothing dictators hate so much as that unassailable, eternally elusive, eternally provoking gleam. One of the main reasons why the very gallant Russian poet Gumilev was put to death by Lenin's ruffians thirty odd years ago was that during the whole ordeal, in the prosecutor's dim office, in the torture house, in the winding corridors that led to the truck, in the truck that took him to the place of execution, and at that place itself, full of the shuffling feet of the clumsy and gloomy shooting squad, the poet kept smiling.

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Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?

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Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

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I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist.

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Life is a message scribbled in the dark.

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Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.

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Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.

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The writer's job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.

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It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.

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