Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.
Our worst enemies here are not the ignorant and simple, however cruel; our worst enemies are the intelligent and corrupt.
You cannot conceive, nor can I, of the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.
In the end there is no desire so deep as the simple desire for companionship.
Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content: the quiet mind is richer than a crown.
The hands of the guilty don’t necessarily tremble; only in stories does a dropped glass betray agitation. Tension is more often shown in the studied action.
A single feat of daring can alter the whole conception of what is possible.
To be in love is to see yourself as someone else sees you, it is to be in love with the falsified and exalted image of yourself. In love we are incapable of honor – the courageous act is no more than playing a part to an audience of two.
A man kept his character even when he was insane.
I could never have been a pacifist. To kill a man was surely to grant him an immeasurable benefit. Oh yes, people always, everywhere, loved their enemies. It was their friends they preserved for pain and vacuity.
So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one’s days.
One can’t love humanity. One can only love people.
Champagne, if you are seeking the truth, is better than a lie detector. It encourages a man to be expansive, even reckless, while lie detectors are only a challenge to tell lies successfully.
My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.
We can love with our minds, but can we love only with our minds? Love extends itself all the time, so that we can love even with our senseless nails: we love even with our clothes, so that a sleeve can feel a sleeve.
I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue; one can’t love and do nothing.
Morality comes with the sad wisdom of age, when the sense of curiosity has withered.
Oh, I’m not a Berkeleian. I believe my back’s against this wall. I believe there’s a sten gun over there.
It was like having a box of chocolates shut in the bedroom drawer. Until the box was empty it occupied the mind too much.
Lust is not the worst thing. It is because any day, any time, lust may turn into love that we have to avoid it. And when we love our sin then we are damned indeed.