He's satisfied with himself. If you have a soul you can't be satisfied.
You needn't be so scared. Love doesn't end. Just because we don't see each other.
We are all of us resigned to death: it's life we aren't resigned to.
Death was far more certain than God.
So much of a novelist's writing, as I have said, takes place in the unconscious: in those depths the last word is written before the first word appears on the paper. We remember details of our story, we do not invent them.
Perhaps the comparison is closer to the Chinese cook who leaves hardly any part of a duck unserved.