Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.

Will you come down and kiss me good night?

The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair. I will be the one woman you will never have...excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails.

The impetus to grow and live intensely is so powerful in me I cannot resist it. I will work, I will love my husband, but I will fulfill myself.

I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

The way to recognize a dead word is that it exudes boredom.