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

I am the only real truth I know.

I long to be ... Like Other People! The extraordinary, ungetatable, oddly cruel Other People, with their way of wantonly hurting and then accusing you of being thin-skinned, sulky, vindictive or ridiculous.

The perpetual hunger to be beautiful and that thirst to be loved which is the real curse of Eve.

that expression you get in your eyes when you are very tired and everything is like a dream and you are starting to know what things are like underneath what people say they are.

I must write. If I stop writing my life will have been an abject failure. It is that already to other people. But it could be an abject failure to myself. I will not have earned death.

Have all beautiful things sad destinies?