I say that I am myself, but what is this Self of mine But a knot in the tangled skein of things where chance and change combine?

I get up in the morning with an idea for a three-volume novel and by nightfall it's a paragraph in my column.

I would rather start a family than finish one.

How often when they find a sage, As sweet as Socrates or Plato; They hand him hemlock for his wage, Or bake him like a sweet potato!

If I try to seize this self of which I feel sure, if I try to define and to summarize it, it is nothing but water slipping through my fingers. I can sketch one…

That's not it. That's not it at all. You always have a tendency to add. But one must be able to subtract too. It's not enough to integrate, you must also disin…

I am. I was. I am not. I never am.