I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities I have visited.

Art is very mysterious. I wonder if you can really do any damage to art. I think that when we're writing, something comes through or should come through, in spite of our theories. So theories are not really important.

I am not sure of anything, I know nothing . . . can you imagine that I don't even know the date of my own death?

Any time something is written against me, I not only share the sentiment but feel I could do the job far better myself. Perhaps I should advise would-be enemies to send me their grievances beforehand, with full assurance that they will receive my every aid and support. I have even secretly longed to write, under a pen name, a merciless tirade against myself.

The machinery of the world is far too complex for the simplicity of men.

As the end approaches, there are no longer any images from memory - there are only words.

So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.