She had acquired some of his gypsy ways, some of his nonchalance, his bohemian indiscipline. She had swung with him into the disorders of strewn clothes, spilled cigarette ashes, slipping into bed all dressed, falling asleep thus, indolence, timelessness...A region of chaos and moonlight. She liked it there.

Will you come down and kiss me good night?

Poverty is the great reality. That is why the artist seeks it.

Keeping a Diary all my life helped me to discover some basic elements essential to the vitality of writing.

She had acquired some of his gypsy ways, some of his nonchalance, his bohemian indiscipline. She had swung with him into the disorders of strewn clothes, spilled cigarette ashes, slipping into bed all dressed, falling asleep thus, indolence, timelessness...A region of chaos and moonlight. She liked it there.

His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it.

We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection.