Love, Arthur, is a poodle's chance of attaining the infinite, and personally I have my pride.

Even diseases have lost their prestige, there aren't so many of them left. Think it over... no more syphilis, no more clap, no more typhoid... antibiotics have taken half the tragedy out of medicine.

There's no such thing as intelligent vanity. It's an instinct. And you'll never find a man who is not first and foremost vain.

Well, you know... experience is a muffled lantern that throws light only on the bearer...it's incommunicable.

An Immense hatred keeps me alive... i would live for a thousand years if i were certain of seeing the whole world croak.

An unfamiliar city is a fine thing. That's the time and place when you can suppose that all the people you meet are nice. It's dream time.

To hell with reality! I want to die in music, not in reason or in prose.

I piss on you all from a considerable height.

Our journey is entirely imaginary. That is its strength.

The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.

The plain truth, I may as well admit it, is that I've never been really right in the head.

It is the working man who is the happy man. It is the idle man who is the miserable man.

If I am a cup maker, I'm interested in making the best cup I possibly can. My effort goes into that cup, not what people think about it.

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Businessmen go down with their businesses because they like the old way so well they cannot change.

I think women directors have to be really tenacious.

Novel-writing is a bit like deception. You lie as little as you possibly can. That's the way I do it, anyway.

A new world order is in the making, and it is up to us to prepare ourselves that we may take our rightful place in it.

I'm tired of ignorance held up as inspiration.

He who does not at some time, with definite determination consent to the terribleness of life, or even exalt in it, never takes possession of the inexpressible fullness of the power of our existence.

The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.