Not necessarily narrow so much as impatient, intense.

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

There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.

I write down portions, maybe fragments, and perhaps an imperfect view of what Im hoping to write. Out of that, I keep trying to find exactly what I want.

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.

I am afraid of him, of all men who are successful in love.

In 1957, I decided: write or perish.