Truth disappears with the telling of it.

The loved object is simply one that has shared an experience at the same moment of time, narcissistically; and the desire to be near the beloved object is at first not due to the idea of possessing it, but simply to let the two experiences compare themselves, like reflections in different mirrors. All this may precede the first look, kiss, or touch; precede ambition, pride, or envy; precede the first declarations which mark the turning point—for from here love degenerates into habit, possession, and back to loneliness.

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.

We should tackle reality in a slightly jokey way, otherwise we miss its point.

Whatever the heart desires, it purchases at the cost of soul

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.

Guilt always hurries towards its complement, punishment: only there does its satisfaction lie.