For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.

You can write any time people will leave you alone and not interrupt you. Or rather you can if you will be ruthless enough about it. But the best writing is certainly when you are in love.

You write a book like that you're fond of over the years, then you see that happen to it, it's like pissing in your father's beer.

Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.

The one who is doing his work and getting satisfaction from it is not the one the poverty bothers.

All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard.

We thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also as a great giver of happiness and well being and delight.