To write is to descend, to excavate, to go underground.
Tranquillity is contagious, peace is contagious. One only thinks of the contagiousness of illness, but there is the contagion of serenity and joy.
I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.
Memory is a great betrayer.
I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.
The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart.