One passes through the world knowing few, if any, of the important things about even the people with whom one has been from time to time in the closest intimacy.

Books do furnish a room.

One passes through the world knowing few, if any, of the important things about even the people with whom one has been from time to time in the closest intimacy.

The whole idea of interviews is in itself absurd - one cannot answer deep questions about what one's life was like - one writes novels about it.

Self-love seems so often unrequited.

One of the worst things about life is not how nasty the nasty people are. You know that already. It is how nasty the nice people can be.

Writing is above all a question of instinct.