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.

Self-love seems so often unrequited.

When people really hate one another, the tension within them can sometimes make itself felt throughout a room, like atmospheric waves, first hot, then cold, wafted backwards and forwards as if in an invisible process of air conditioning, creating a pervasive physical disturbance.

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

Writing is above all a question of instinct.

[T]here is no greater sign of innate misery than a love of teasing.