Death from disillusion is not instantaneous, and there are no mercy killers for the disillusioned.

I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.

There were silences in my head. I could abandon myself completely to the pleasure of multiple relationships, to the beauty of the day, to the joys of the day. It was as if a cancer in me had ceased gnawing me. The cancer of introspection.

The dangerous time when mechanical voices, radios, telephones, take the place of human intimacies, and the concept of being in touch with millions brings a greater and greater poverty in intimacy and human vision.

The inner chambers of the soul are like the photographer's darkroom. Like a laboratory. One cannot stay there all the time or it becomes the solitary cell of the neurotic.

When I first met him, he did not care if a friend did not fit into his world, because at that time his world had not been born yet.

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