I've often found myself preferring second-rate people to supposedly superior people, simply and solely because of their uncontrollable tendency to bang themselves against the sides of life's vast lampshade like fireflies or moths.

I did not find him absurd. I saw he was kind, that he was on the verge of real love. I thought it would be nice for me to be in love with him, too.

It seems to me that there are two kinds of trickery: the "fronts" people assume before one another's eyes, and the "front" a writer puts on the face of reality.

The one thing I regret is that I will never have time to read all the books I want to read.

All my life, I will continue obstinately to write about love, solitude and passion among the kind of people I know. The rest don't interest me.

When you make a decision to write according to a set schedule and really stick to it, you find yourself writing very fast. At least I do.

There is a certain age when a woman must be beautiful to be loved, and then there comes a time when she must be loved to be beautiful.