To Be Human Is Erroneous.

My Language Is The Common Prostitute That I Turn Into A Virgin.

Let Language Be The Divining Rod That Finds The Sources Of Thought.

Let My Style Capture All The Sounds Of My Time. This Should Make It An Annoyance To My Contemporaries. But Later Generations Should Hold It To Their Ears Like A Seashell In Which There Is The Music Of An Ocean Of Mud.

This Is Something That I Cannot Get Over -- That A Whole Line Could Be Written By Half A Man, That A Work Could Be Built On The Quicksand Of A Character.

One's Need For Loneliness Is Not Satisfied If One Sits At A Table Alone. There Must Be Empty Chairs As Well.