One can't love humanity. One can only love people.

Insecurity is the worst sense that lovers feel; sometimes the most humdrum desireless marriage seems better. Insecurity twists meanings and poisons trust.

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.

My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.

You cannot conceive, nor can I, of the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God.

Cruel men cry easily at the cinema.

Insecurity twists meanings and poisons trust. In a closely beleaguered city every sentry is a potential traitor.