Cruel men cry easily at the cinema.

You think it more difficult to turn air into wine than to turn wine into blood?.

My passion for Sarah had killed simple lust forever. Never again would I be able to enjoy a woman without love.

And there, in that phrase, the bitterness leaks again out of my pen. What a dull lifeless quality this bitterness is. If I could I would write with love, but if I could write with love I would be another man; I would never have lost love.

It is the same in life: sometimes it is more difficult to make a scene than to die.

Failure too is a form of death.

It is the earliest dream that I can remember, earlier than the witch at the corner of the nursery passage, this dream of something outside that has got to come in. The witch, like the masked dancers, has form, but this is simply power, a force exerted on a door, an influence that drifted after me upstairs and pressed against windows.