A man so painfully in love is capable of self-torture beyond belief.

All of them had a restlessness in common.

If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another.

Men really need sea-monsters in their personal oceans. An ocean without its unnamed monsters would be like a completely dreamless sleep.

We only have one story. All novels, all poetry are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil.

I wonder how many people I've looked at all my life and never seen.

The last clear definite function of man — muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need — this is man.