During the act of writing I have told myself something that I didn't know I knew.

I'm always aware that I risk being taken for a neurasthenic prima donna when I explain to someone who wants 'just a little' of my time that five minutes of the wrong kind of distraction can ruin a working day.

Much of the activity we think of as writing is, actually, getting ready to write.

If there is such a thing as sin in this world, I think it must be shutting oneself up against hope.

Some things arrive in their own mysterious hour, on their own terms and not yours, to be seized or relinquished forever.

Who wanted to creep along in comfort when there was one chance in a thousand of flying?

There are two kinds of people. One kind, you can just tell by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves. It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more surprises from it. Whereas, the other kind keep moving, changing... They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young. In my opinion, they are the only people who are still alive. You must be constantly on your guard against congealing.