...my boredom might be described as a malady affecting external objects and consisting of a withering process; an almost instantaneous loss of vitality--just as though one saw a flower change in a few seconds from a bud to decay and dust.

An uncertain evil causes anxiety because, at the bottom of one's heart, one goes on hoping till the last moment that it may not be true; a certain evil, on the other hand, instills, for a time, a kind of dreary tranquillity.

You can't think on purpose about somebody or something. Either you think about them naturally or you don't think at all.

War has become an affair of machines...and soldiers are little more than clever mechanics.

A writer survives in spite of his beliefs.

I like to compare my method with that of painters centuries ago, proceeding from layer to layer.

When I sit at my table to write, I never know what it's going to be until I'm under way. I trust in inspiration, which sometimes comes and sometimes doesn't. But I don't sit back waiting for it. I work every day.