For reasons not always at the time explicable, there are specific occasions when events begin suddenly to take on a significance previously unsuspected, so that, before we really know where we are, life seems to have begun in earnest at last, and we ourselves, scarcely aware that any change has taken place, are careering uncontrollably down the slippery avenues of eternity.

A dance to the music of time.

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-pity is essentially humorless, devoid of that lightness of touch which gives understanding of life.

Few persons who have ever sat for a portrait can have felt anything but inferior while the process is going on.

It is not what happens to people that is significant, but what they think happens to them.

Self-love seems so often unrequited.