If a book come from the heart, it will contrive to reach other hearts; all art and authorcraft are of small amount to that.

The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.

To write books is to have a certain relation with original sin. For what is a book if not a loss of innocence, an act of aggression, a repetition of our Fall?

There ought to be some sign in a book about Man, that the writer knows thoroughly one man at least.

The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately: the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.

Our admiration of fine writing will always be in proportion to its real difficulty and its apparent ease.

In plucking the fruit of memory one runs the risk of spoiling its bloom, especially if it has got to be carried into the marketplace.

In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia you have to explain what a writer is.

Authors are sometimes like tomcats: they distrust all the other toms, but they are kind to kittens.

I tried to write worse but it was no good; my generalizations came out as before, each more exquisite than the last. I grew discouraged.