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.

What have we all got to expect that we allow ourselves to be so lined with disappointment?

Innocence always calls mutely for protection when we would be so much wiser to guard ourselves against it: innocence is like a dumb leper who has lost his bell, wandering the world, meaning no harm.

They are always saying God loves us. If thats love Id rather have a bit of kindness.

A brain is only capable of what it could conceive, andit couldnt concieve what it hasnt experienced

You cannot love without intuition.

Our worst enemies here are not the ignorant and simple, however cruel; our worst enemies are the intelligent and corrupt