I always knew writing a novel was a great thing.

Now they are lovers. The first, wild courses are ended. They have founded their domain. A satanic happiness follows.

Normally, what you’re envious of is a book, not a writer: standards, ideas, levels … almost nonexistent things.

But knowledge does not protect one. Life is contemptuous of knowledge; it forces it to sit in the anterooms, to wait outside. Passion, energy, lies: these are what life admires. Still, anything can be endured if all humanity is watching. The martyrs prove it. We live in the attention of others. We turn to it as flowers to the sun.

It is always an accident that saves us. It is someone we have never seen.

My idea of writing is of unflinching and continual effort, somehow trying to find the right words until you reach a point where you can make no further progress and you either have something or you don’t.

But that isn't my life. I have said many times I don't want to be considered one who once flew fighters. That's not who I am. I devoted the subsequent 50 years - more - to writing.