When everyone writes, no one reads.
The dead alive and busy.
The academic bibliography buries the ten books the author has plagiarized among hundreds that he has barely read.
I always inspect what people read in public, but guiltily, the way boys look up skirts from under the bleachers.
The desires to have one’s work understood, and oneself understood, are nearly opposite, and ought not to share a verb.
We have always believed what we read, and now we can read what we believe.
A few books, like Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson and certain novels by Wodehouse, are unglossable, complete and perfect in themselves. They may succeed with the public but never with the critics, who before them feel their own irrelevance too acutely.
A reader more intelligent than the writer will read more than the writer intended, a reader less intelligent will read less, and a reader equally intelligent will read something entirely different.
An aphorism should look wrong to half its readers and obvious to the other half.
School inculcates the bad habit of finishing books, as if they were assignments.
To fall out of love with a writer is the first step toward understanding him.