We all leave one another. We die, we change - it's mostly change - we outgrow our best friends; but even if I do leave you, I will have passed on to you something of myself; you will be a different person because of knowing me; it's inescapable.

I crossed the room, and what you did was to feel my hair over and over again and in different ways, touch it, with the palm of your hand... felt it, strands of hair, with your fingers, touched it as if it were cloth, the way a child touches its favorite surfaces.

I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.

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

Death in its way comes just as much of a surprise as birth.

I always want to be in love, always. It's like being a tuning fork.

Recollection is not something that I can summon up, it simply comes and I am the servant of it.