Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order.

I really only have Perfect Fun with myself. Other people won't stop and look at the things I want to look at or, if they do, they stop to please me or to humor me or to keep the peace.

There are in life as many aspects as attitudes towards it, and aspects change with attitudes.

There is no feeling to be compared with the feeling of having written and finished a story.

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.

we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves.

I think of you often. Especially in the evenings, when I am on the balcony and it’s too dark to write or to do anything but wait for the stars. A time I love. One feels half disembodied, sitting like a shadow at the door of one’s being while the dark tide rises. Then comes the moon, marvellously serene, and small stars, very merry for some reason of their own. It is so easy to forget, in a worldly life, to attend to these miracles.