where a man feels at home, outside of where he’s born, is where he’s meant to go.

Religion is like an ice cold whiskey on a hot day.

She is kind and very beautiful. But she can be so cruel and it comes so suddenly and such birds that fly, dipping and hunting, with their small sad voices are made too delicately for the sea.

Having books published is very destructive to writing. It is even worse than making love too much. Because when you make love too much at least you get a damned clarte that is like no other light. A very clear and hollow light.

Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail.

Remember everything is right until it's wrong. You'll know when it's wrong.

I've been wondering about Dostoyevsky. How can a man write so badly, so unbelievably badly, and make you feel so deeply?