I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.
I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.
Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much.
It is hard, I submit, to loathe bloodshed, including war, more than I do, but it is still harder to exceed my loathing of the very nature of totalitarian states in which massacre is only an administrative detail.
It's a pity one can't imagine what one can't compare to anything. Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one.
Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.
A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.