...morbidly, attracted him to strangeness, to recklessnesss, even unhappiness.

You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.

But they never last, the golden days. And it can be sad, the sun in the afternoon, can't it? Yes, it can be sad, the afternoon sun, sad and frightening.

before I could read, almost a baby, I imagined that God, this strange thing or person I heard about, was a book.

The rumble of the life outside was like the sound of the sea which was rising gradually around her.

She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.

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