We think we're living in the present, but we're really living in the past.
In order really to write one has to sink deep into the self and become lost there.
The past beats inside me like a second heart.
All art at a certain level is entertainment. We go to a tragedy by Sophocles to be entertained.
Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins.
All a work of art can do is present the surface. I can't know the insides of people. I know very little about the inside of myself.