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.

Love must wait; it must break one’s bones.

I'm tired of my life, my clothes, the things I say. I'm hacking away at the surface, as at some kind of gray ice, trying to break through to what is underneath or I am dead. I can feel the surface trembling—it seems ready to give but it never does. I am uninterested in current events. How can I justify this? How can I explain it? I don't want to have the same vocabulary I've always had. I want something richer, broader, more penetrating and powerful.

A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold.

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

We were moderate, we will never know what it is to spill out our lives.

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