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.

You’re so American. You believe everything is possible, everything will come. I know differently.

Women fall in love when they get to know you. Men are just the opposite. When they finally know you they're ready to leave

Life passes into pages if it passes into anything.

If you write enough, you begin to learn to do things. But in a way, you do start from zero each time.

It's just that it's hard to believe in greatness.

Why is it so difficult to assemble those things that really matter in life and to dwell among them only? I am referring to certain landscapes, persons, beasts, books, rooms, meteorological conditions, fruits.