The meaning of life is that it stops.

There is a down-and-outness under true knowledge and a childlike happy arising from it.

Love has as few problems as a motor car. The only problems are the driver, the passengers, and the road.

I need solitude for my writing; not 'like a hermit' - that wouldn't be enough - but like a dead man.

If you find someone who makes you smile, who checks up on you often to see if you're okay. Who watches out or you and wants the best for you. Who loves and respects you. Don't let them go. People like that are hard to find.

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

Writing sustains me. But wouldn’t it be better to say it sustains this kind of life? Which doesn't mean life is any better when I don’t write. On the contrary, it is far worse, wholly unbearable, and inevitably ends in madness. This is, of course, only on the assumption that I am a writer even when I don’t write - which is indeed the case; and a non-writing writer is, in fact, a monster courting insanity.