I write emotional algebra.

The child who is uprooted begins to recognize that what he builds within himself is what will endure, what will withstand shattering experiences.

We see things the way we are, not the way they are.

The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself.

There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

Is devotion to others a cover for the hungers and the needs of the self, of which one is ashamed? I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not virtue. It was a disguise.

Dreams are essential to life.