Rome is ... an impossible compounding of time, in which no century has respect for any other and all hit you in a jumble at every turn.

Doubt remains a luxury I won't do without.

Music or the color of the sea are easier to describe than the taste of one of these Armoricaines.

How smartly September comes in, like a racing gig, all style, no confusion.

I think you write only out of a great trouble. A trouble of excitement, a trouble of enlargement, a trouble of displacement in yourself.

Rome is ... an impossible compounding of time, in which no century has respect for any other and all hit you in a jumble at every turn.

Shame can be self-indulgence too.