She’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.

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

After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.

If all good, respectable people had one face, I'd spit in it.

Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.

I have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).

very few people change after well say seven or seventeen. Not really. They get more this or more that and of course look a bit different. But inside they are the same.