A big enough artist, I say, can eat anything, must eat everything and then alchemize it. Only the feeble writer is afraid of expansion.

I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.

I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.

It amazes me that you feel that each time you write a story you give away one of your dreams and you feel the poorer for it. But then you have not thought that this dream is planted in others, others begin to live it too, it is shared, it is the beginning of friendship and love. How is this world made which you enjoy, the friends around me that you love? They came because I first gave away my stories.

Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.

It is easy to love and there are so many ways to do it.