Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry. “And what is beauty?” “Terror.

My novels aren't really generated by a single conceptual spark; it's more a process of many different elements that come together unexpectedly over a long period of time.

Beauty alters the grain of reality.

But romantic vision can also lead one away from certain very hard, ugly truths about life that are important to know.

When I looked at the painting I felt the same convergence on a single point: a flickering sun-struck instance that existed now and forever. Only occasionally did I notice the chain on the finch's ankle, or think what a cruel life for a little living creature - fluttering briefly, forced always to land in the same hopeless place.

When you feel homesick,’ he said, ‘just look up. Because the moon is the same wherever you go.

If I'm not working, I'm not happy. That's it. That's the prerequisite for me for happiness.