In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.
Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain.
A little hope, even hopeless hope, never hurt anybody.
Act out being alive, like a play. And after a while, a long while, it will be true.
I guess there are never enough books.
A book is like a man - clever and dull, brave and cowardly, beautiful and ugly. For every flowering thought there will be a page like a wet and mangy mongrel, and for every looping flight a tap on the wing and a reminder that wax cannot hold the feathers firm too near the sun.