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

Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.

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

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.

I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness.

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.

I am the only real truth I know.