A trite word is an overused word which has lost its identity like an old coat in a second-hand shop. The familiar grows dull and we no longer see, hear, or taste it.

There were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.

Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go.

When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.

I love your silences, they are like mine. You are the only being before whom I am not distressed by my own silences. You have a vehement silence, one feels it is charged with essences, it is a strangely alive silence, like a trap open over a well, from which one can hear the secret murmur of the earth 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.

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.