We can only learn to love by loving.

So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.

People have obsessions and fears and passions which they don't admit to. I think every character is interesting and has extremes. It's the novelist privilege to see how odd everyone is.

Intense mutual erotic love, love which involves with the flesh all the most refined sexual being of the spirit, which reveals and perhaps even ex nihilo creates spirit as sex, is comparatively rare in this inconvenient world.

Freedom may be a value in politics, but it is not a value in morals.

A letter is a barrier, a reprieve, a charm against the world, an almost infallible method of acting at a distance.

Socrates wrote nothing. Christ wrote nothing.