Work on good prose has three steps: a musical stage when it is composed, an architectonic one when it is built, and a textile one when it is woven.

Opinions are a private matter. The public has an interest only in judgments.

The idea that happiness could have a share in beauty would be too much of a good thing.

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories.

The adjustment of reality to the masses and of the masses to reality is a process of unlimited scope, as much for thinking as for perception.

The art of the critic in a nutshell: to coin slogans without betraying ideas. The slogans of an inadequate criticism peddle ideas to fashion.

The destructive character lives from the feeling, not that life is worth living, but that suicide is not worth the trouble.

All disgust is originally disgust at touching.

The only way of knowing a person is to love them without hope.

Books and harlots have their quarrels in public.

Death is the sanction of everything the story-teller can tell. He has borrowed his authority from death.

Quotations in my work are like wayside robbers who leap out armed and relieve the stroller of his conviction.

Gifts must affect the receiver to the point of shock.

Work on good prose has three steps: a musical stage when it is composed, an architectonic one when it is built, and a textile one when it is woven.

The greater the decrease in the social significance of an art form, the sharper the distinction between criticism and enjoyment by the public. The conventional is uncritically enjoyed, and the truly new is criticized with aversion.

The camera introduces us to unconscious optics as does psychoanalysis to unconscious impulses.

Of all the ways of acquiring books, writing them oneself is regarded as the most praiseworthy method. Writers are really people who write books not because they are poor, but because they are dissatisfied with the books which they could buy but do not like.

Living substance conquers the frenzy of destruction only in the ecstasy of procreation.

Counsel woven into the fabric of real life is wisdom.

Memory is not an instrument for exploring the past but its theatre. It is the medium of past experience, as the ground is the medium in which dead cities lie interred.

To be happy is to be able to become aware of oneself without fright.

Genuine polemics approach a book as lovingly as a cannibal spices a baby.

All human knowledge takes the form of interpretation.

Opinions are to the vast apparatus of social existence what oil is to machines: one does not go up to a turbine and pour machine oil over it; one applies a little to hidden spindles and joints that one has to know.

The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.

It is only for the sake of those without hope that hope is given to us.

The construction of life is at present in the power of facts far more than convictions.

Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away.

It is precisely the purpose of the public opinion generated by the press to make the public incapable of judging, to insinuate into it the attitude of someone irresponsible, uninformed.

The true picture of the past flits by. The past can be seized only as an image which flashes up at the instant when it can be recognized and is never seen again.

He who observes etiquette but objects to lying is like someone who dresses fashionably but wears no vest.

All efforts to make politics aesthetic culminate in one thing, war.

The more circumspectly you delay writing down an idea the more maturely developed it will be on surrendering itself.

The work of memory collapses time.

Ownership is the most intimate relationship that one can have to objects. Not that they come alive in him; it is he who lives in them.

The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic slice of truth, wisdom, is dying out.

Any translation which intends to perform a transmitting function cannot transmit anything but information -- hence, something inessential. This is the hallmark of bad translations.

True translation is transparent: it does not obscure the original, does not stand in its light, but rather allows pure language, as if strengthened by its own medium, to shine even more fully on the original.

The poetry from the eighteenth century was prose; the prose from the seventeenth century was poetry.

Poetry is fascinating. As soon as it begins the poetry has changed the thing into something extra, and somehow prose can go over into poetry.

Apart from a few simple principles, the sound and rhythm of English prose seem to me matters where both writers and readers should trust not so much to rules as to their ears.

Cliches and adjectives permeated my prose.

I think Maus I is better than Maus II. The standard here is whether or not it's as good as a great book of prose literature and by that standard, no, it's not that great.

Music is more emotional than prose, more revolutionary than poetry. I'm not saying I've got the answers, just a of questions that I don't hear other artists asking.

Poetry seems to sink into us the way prose doesn't. I can still quote verses I learned when I was very young, but I have trouble remembering one line of a novel I just finished reading.

Science and art, or by the same token, poetry and prose differ from one another like a journey and an excursion. The purpose of the journey is its goal, the purpose of an excursion is the process.

Poetry is a beautiful way of spoiling prose, and the laborious art of exchanging plain sense for harmony.

And what holds good of verse holds infinitely better in respect to prose.

What I do say is that I can write verse, and that the writing of verse in strict form is the best possible training for writing good prose.