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.

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 ivory tower of the artist may be the only stronghold left for human values, cultural treasures, man’s cult of beauty.

When I don't write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.

Dreams are essential to life.

I needed to live, but I also needed to record what I lived.

All unlived emotions turn to inanity.