Ideally I'd like to spend two evenings a week talking to Proust and another conversing with the Holy Ghost.

Sometimes one word can recall a whole span of life.

In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.

Life, after all, was a secret with the self. The more one gave out, the less there remained for the center--that center which she coveted for herself and recognized instantly in others. Fruits had it, the very heart of, say, a cherry, where the true worth and flavor lay. Some of course were flawed or hollow in there. Many, in fact.

Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.

Writing is the product of a deeply disturbed psyche, and by no means therapeutic.

...people liking you or not liking you is an accident and is to do with them and not you. That goes for love too, only more so.