I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.

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

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

Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.

No past to make us sentimental, no future to embarrass us...a difficult moment when you are out of practice - a moment that makes you go cold, cold and wary.

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

...morbidly, attracted him to strangeness, to recklessnesss, even unhappiness.