How the hell can a man write when he doesn’t know where he’s going to sit the next half-hour? If this rich bastard takes the place I won’t even have a place to sleep. It’s hard to know, when you’re in such a jam, which is worse – not having a place to sleep or not having a place to work. One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a place to work. Even if it’s not a masterpiece you’re doing. Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy.
Thus their walk came to an end. The result for all of them was wet feet, an irritated brain – as though the thin, bare branches on the trees, sparkling in the winter sun had turned to splinters stuck in the retina – a vulgar craving for hot coffee, and the feeling of human forlornness.
Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.
I, like other philosophers, have a habit of understatement in which “it seems plainly false” means “it is plainly false.”
‘What disturbs me is not the noise but the banality of conversation (if he at least talked in some language unknown to me, and a musical one!)’