If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.

A room? A nice room? A beautiful room? A beautiful room with bath? Swing high, swing low, swing to and fro...This happened and that happened... And then the days came and I was alone.

All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.

Every word I say has chains round its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights.

Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.

When he talked his eyes went away from mine and then he forced himself to look straight at me and he began to explain and I knew that he felt very strange with me and that he hated me, and it was funny sitting there and talking like that, knowing he hated me.

Everything tender and melancholy - as life is sometimes, just for one moment.