So if I were talking to a young writer, I would recommend the cultivation of extreme indifference to both praise and blame because praise will lead you to vanity, and blame will lead you to self-pity, and both are bad for writers.

We have reason to be afraid. This is a terrible place.

This world is gradually becoming a place Where I do not care to be any more.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored means you have no inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored.

I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam that love. Prattle of children powers me home, my heart claps like the swan's under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.

The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business.

We are using our own skins for wallpaper and we cannot win.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn

Two daiquiris withdrew into a corner of a gorgeous room and one told the other a lie.

That is our ‘pointed task. Love & die.

I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature.

Bats have no bankers and they do not drink and cannot be arrested and pay no tax and, in general, bats have it made.

Literature bores me, especially great literature

We must travel in the direction of our fear.

I am so wise I had my mouth sewn shut.

Offering Dragons quarter is no good, they regrow all their parts and come on again. They have to be killed.

Praise will lead you to vanity, and blame will lead you to self-pity, and both are bad for writers.