I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.

For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.

Sorrow is implicit in love as gravitation is implicit in mass.

It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.

I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.

A diary is the last place to go if you wish to seek the truth about a person. Nobody dares to make the final confession to themselves on paper: or at least, not about love.

It takes a lot of energy and a lot of neurosis to write a novel. If you were really sensible, you'd do something else.