I had committed myself: without love I'd have to go through the gestures of love.

I could have waited years, now that I knew the end of the story. I was cold and wet and very happy. I could even look with charity towards the altar and the figure dangling there. She loves us both, I thought, but if there is to be a conflict between an image and a man, I know who will win. I could put my hand on her thigh or my mouth on her breast; he was imprisoned behind the altar and couldn't move to plead his cause.

For an artist to think in terms of success is like a priest trying to think in terms of success.

The trouble is I don't believe my unbelief.

I never knew a man who had better motives for all the trouble he caused.

One never knows enough about characters in real life to put them into novels. One gets started and then, suddenly, one can not remember what toothpaste they use; what are their views on interior decoration, and one is stuck utterly. No, major characters emerge; minor ones may be photographed.

You needn't be so scared. Love doesn't end. Just because we don't see each other.