You think when you wake up in the mornin yesterday don't count. But yesterday is all that does count. What else is there? Your life is made out of the days it’s made out of. Nothin else.

Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence.

You are either born a writer or you are not.

The societies to which I have been exposed seemed to me largely machines for the suppression of women.

Even if what you're working on doesn't go anywhere, it will help you with the next thing you're doing. Make yourself available for something to happen. Give it a shot.

The core of literature is the idea of tragedy... You don't really learn much from the good things that happen to you.

What joins men together ... is not the sharing of bread but the sharing of enemies.