one could drown in irrelevance.

In that shrinking moment he discovered that he had never hated anyone until now. It was a feeling as pure as love, but dispassionate and icily rational.

We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white.

The moment you lose curiosity in the world, you might as well be dead.

I find it very difficult to talk about unwritten works. It's never useful to start putting words casually around the flimsiest of notions. I finished Saturday only in late November and I'm now in the rather pleasant stage of traveling, reading and waiting.

He who hesitates is not only lost, but miles from the next exit.

Wasn't writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?