Ach, Tchekov! Why are you dead? Why can’t I talk to you in a big darkish room at late evening—where the light is green from the waving trees outside? I’d like to write a series of Heavens: that would be one.

To be alive and to be a ‘writer’ is enough.

I want, by understanding myself, to understand others.

Some couples go over their budgets very carefully every month. Others just go over them.

What do you want most to do? That's what I have to keep asking myself, in the face of difficulties.

I don't believe other people are ever as foolishly excited as I am while I'm working. How could they be? Writers would have to live in trees.

If you wish to live, you must first attend your own funeral.