Life is that which - pressingly, persistently, unfailingly, imperially - interrupts.
One must avoid ambition in order to write. Otherwise something else is the goal: some kind of power beyond the power of language. And the power of language, it seems to me, is the only kind of power a writer is entitled to.
One reason writers write is out of revenge.
Whoever mourns the dead mourns himself.
The imagination has resources and intimations we don't even know about.
Nothing is so awesomely unfamiliar as the familiar that discloses itself at the end of a journey. Nothing shakes the heart so much as meeting-far, far away-what you last met at home.