Poverty is a stubborn thing: you seldom escape it with one bound.
Poetry, I thought then, and still do, is a matter of space on the page interrupted by a few well-chosen words, to give them importance. Prose is a less grand affair which has to stretch to the edges of the page to be convincing.
What makes women happy? Nothing, for more than ten minutes at a time, so stop worrying.
One can learn, at least. One can go on learning until the day one is cut off.
If you do nothing unexpected, nothing unexpected happens.
Much sheer effort goes into avoiding the truth; left to itself, it sweeps in like the tide.