The great majority of modern third-person narration is "I" narration very thinly disguised.

The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.

There are some men who are consoled by the idea that there are women less attractive than their wives; and others who are haunted by the knowledge that there are more attractive.

To despise all effort is the greatest effort of all.

I knew words were like chains, they held me back . . . the act of description taints the description.

Death is the room that is always empty.

Art's cruel. You can get away with murder with words. But a picture is like a window straight through to your inmost heart.