I don't know if this is true to you but for me sometimes it gets so bad that anything else say like looking at a bird on an overhead power line seems as great as a Beethoven symphony. then you forget it and you're back again.

Her eyes always had a frantic, lost look. He could never cure her eyes of that.

A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.

This incompleteness is all we have.

Without literature, life is hell.

The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.

I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn't have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. I didn't make for an interesting person. I didn't want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.