What is the ultimate impulse to write? Because all this is going to vanish.

I'm a frotteur, someone who likes to rub words in his hand, to turn them around and feel them, to wonder if that really is the best word possible.

Events need their invitation, dissolutions their start.

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

Hope but not enthusiasm is the proper state for the writer.

Not necessarily narrow so much as impatient, intense.

The summer has ended. The garden withers. The mornings become chill. I am thirty, I am thirty-four -the years turn dry as leaves.