Better let it all alone in the depths of her heart and the depths of the sea.

Often I think writing is a sheer paring away of oneself leaving always something thinner, barer, more meagre.

I've got an adjective that just fits you.

Never miss a party...good for the nerves--like celery.

At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.

The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say.

He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone away and he could never go back anymore. The gates were closed, the sun was down, and there was no beauty left but the gray beauty of steel that withstands all time. Even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of youth, of illusion, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.