As I look back, I see that life is like a game of solitaire and every once in a while there is a move.

The whole joy of writing comes from the opportunity to go over it and make it good, one way or another.

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

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

One alters the past to form the future but there is a real significance to the pattern which finally appears, which resists all further change.

To write? Because all this is going to vanish. The only thing left will be the prose and poems, the books, what is written down. Man was very fortunate to have invented the book. Without it the past would completely vanish, and we would be left with nothing, we would be naked on earth.

I don't fear death. I'm not obsessed with it the way everybody else seems to be.