I am a creature of my pen. My pen is the best of me.

Think of this - that the writer wrote alone, and the reader read alone, and they were alone with each other.

Everything is surprising, rightly seen.

Dorothy was in that state human beings passed through at the beginning of a love affair, in which they desire to say anything and everything to the beloved, to the alter ego, before they have learned what the real Other can and can't understand, can and can't accept.

I do not want to be a relative and passive being, anywhere. I want to live and love and write.

There is a certain aesthetic pleasure in trying to imagine the unimaginable and failing, if you are a reader.

Well, I would hardly say I do write as yet. But I write because I like words. I suppose if I liked stone I might carve. I like words. I like reading. I notice particular words. That sets me off.