The economy of a novelist is a little like that of a careful housewife who is unwilling to throw away anything that might perhaps serve its turn.

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.

One has no talent. I have no talent. It's just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.

Reality in our century is not something to be faced.

All the emotions have something in common. People are quite aware of the sorrow there always is in lust, but they are not so aware of the lust there is in sorrow.

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

It was as though our love were a small creature caught in a trap and bleeding to death: I had to shut my eyes and wring its neck.