There is only one thing which interests me vitally now, and that is the recording of all that which is omitted in books

And there is a time, glorious too in its own way, when one scarcely exists, when one is a complete void. I mean, when boredom seems the very stuff of life.

Art is only a means to life, the life more abundant. It merely points the way.

The more I wrote, the more I became a human being. The writing may have seemed monstrous (to some) for it was a violation, but I became a more human individual because of it. I was getting the poison out of my system.

I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.

To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth—I count that something of a miracle.

The full and joyful acceptance of the worst in oneself may be the only sure way of transforming it.