Go all the way with it. Do not back off. For once, go all the goddamn way with what matters.

My working habits are simple: long periods of thinking, short periods of writing.

Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure only death can stop it.

You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

The only place where you could see life and death, i. e., violent death now that the wars were over, was in the bull ring and I wanted very much to go to Spain where I could study it. I was trying to learn to write, commencing with the simplest things, and one of the simplest things of all and the most fundamental is violent death.

I am always in love.

I suppose if a man has something once, always something of it remains.