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

A room? A nice room? A beautiful room? A beautiful room with bath? Swing high, swing low, swing to and fro...This happened and that happened... And then the days came and I was alone.

The musty smell, the bugs, the lonliness, this room, which is part of the street outside-this is all I want from life.

If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.

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.

Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armor at home.

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