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

It is in the thirties that we want friends. In the forties we know they won't save us any more than love did.

Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.

People invariably chose inimitable people to imitate.

You can stroke people with words.

Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds, they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material.

I want to be a society vampire, you see.