From my weakness, I drew strength that never left me.

I...have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny — that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.

The art of writing is mysterious, the opinions we hold are ephemeral.

Blindness has not been for me a total misfortune; it should not be seen in a pathetic way. It should be seen as a way of life: one of the styles of living.

Creativity is suspended between memory and forgetting.

I have committed the worst of sins one can commit... I have not been happy.

My father and he had cemented one of those English friendships which begin by avoiding intimacies and eventually eliminate speech altogether.