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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Some people—and I am one of them—hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not only unnaturally but unethically.

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Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.

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

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Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.

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Genius is finding the invisible link between things.

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Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.

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Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.

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The future is but the obsolete in reverse.

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Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

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