. . . all that she had had, and all that she had missed, were lost together, and were twice lost in this landslide of remembered losses.

Writing, in any sense that matters, cannot be taught. It can only be learned by each separate one of us in his own way, by the use of his own powers of imagination and perception, the ability to learn the lessons he has set for himself.

I shall try to tell the truth, but the result will be fiction.

I want to go and see the world. I want to know the world like the palm of my hand.

Evil is dull, that is the worst of it.

I think I've only spent about ten percent of my energies on writing. The other ninety percent went to keeping my head above water.

Could she fall so low? No, there were limits, and she believed she still knew where some of them were.