You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés.

I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy.

You write a book like that you're fond of over the years, then you see that happen to it, it's like pissing in your father's beer.

Decadence is a difficult word to use since it has become little more than a term of abuse applied by critics to anything they do not yet understand or which seems to differ from their moral concepts.

That terrible mood of depression of whether it's any good or not is what is known as The Artist's Reward.

I still need more healthy rest in order to work at my best. My health is the main capital I have and I want to administer it intelligently.

Some people show evil as a great racehorse shows breeding. They have the dignity of a hard chancre.

I know now that there is no one thing that is true -- it is all true.

There's no one thing that is true. They're all true.

There is no friend as loyal as a book