A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it. It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction.
He dares not concern himself with the future for fear of disturbing the present.
I'm concerned about the unknowability of other people.
The silence is perfect, and yet a torment.
Open a book this minute and start reading. Don’t move until you’ve reached page fifty. Until you’ve buried your thoughts in print. Cover yourself with words. Wash yourself away. Dissolve.
The larger loneliness of our lives evolves from our unwillingness to spend ourselves, stir ourselves. We are always damping down our inner weather, permitting ourselves the comforts of postponement, of rehearsals