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.

He had discovered that people who allow themselves to be blown about by the winds of emotion and impulse are always unhappy people.

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

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

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

Something in her brain that still remained calm told her that she was doing a very foolish thing indeed.

I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.