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

Sometimes the Earth trembles; sometimes you can feel it breathe.

It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.

What you take to be hyprocrisy is sometimes a certain caution, sometimes genuine, though ponderous, childish, sometimes a mixture of both.

Not that she objected to solitude. Quite the contrary. She had books, thank Heaven, quantities of books. All sorts of books.

You imagine the carefully pruned, shaped thing that is presented to you is truth. That is just what it isn't. The truth is improbable, the truth is fantastic; it's in what you think is a distorting mirror that you see the truth.

When I think about it, if I had to choose, I'd rather be happy than write.