For there is only one great adventure and that is inward toward the self, and for that, time nor space nor even deeds matter.

Writing is its own reward.

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

New York has a trip-hammer vitality which drives you insane with restlessness if you have no inner stabilizer.

Somewhere along the way one discovers that what one has to tell is not nearly so important as the telling itself.

I read to be taken out of myself, to become ecstatic.

Everything we shut our eyes to, everything we run away from, everything we deny, denigrate, or despise, serves to defeat us in the end.