Prose Is Like Hair; It Shines With

The True Poet For Me Is A Priest. As Soon As He Dons The Cassock, He Must Leave His Family.

For Him The Universe Did Not Extend Beyond The Circumference Of Her Petticoat.

One Must Always Hope When One Is Desperate, And Doubt When One Hopes.

In My View, The Novelist Has No Right To Express His Opinions On The Things Of This World. In Creating, He Must Imitate God: Do His Job And Then Shut Up.

Let Us Not Kid Ourselves; Let Us Remember That Literature Is Of No Use Whatever, Except In The Very Special Case Of Somebody's Wishing To Become, Of All Things, A Professor Of Literature.