The richest source of creation is feeling, followed by a vision of its meaning.

The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer.

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

She makes use of the soft of the bread for a napkin. She falls asleep at times with shoes on, on unmade beds. When a little money comes in, June buys delicacies, strawberries in the winter, caviar and bath salts.

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

Nothing endures unless it has first been transposed into a myth, and the great advantage of myths is that they are ladies with portable roots.

For the neurotic, the merging of the subconscious and the conscious may be risky, just as it is for the users of drugs. But for the writer who is aware of the way in which this connection exists in reality and nourishes creativity, the sooner he can achieve a synthesis among intellect, emotion, and instinct, the sooner his work will be integrated.