Some must cry so that others may be able to laugh the more heartily. Sacrifices are necessary.

I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.

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

Yes, I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and that one broken, sad as a woman who is growing old. Sad, sad, sad.

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.

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

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