It's afterwards you realize that the feeling of happiness you had with a man didn't necessarily prove that you loved him.

Some people are like that - closed - they can't learn from anyone. Us, for example, we can't learn anything, neither I from you nor you from me, nor from anyone, nor from anything, nor from what happens.

She had lived her early years as though she were waiting for something she might, but never did, become.

You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die.

When you wept it was just over yourself and not because of the marvelous impossibility of reaching her through the difference that separates you.

Men like women who write. Even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country.

Madness is like intelligence, you know. You can't explain it. Just like intelligence. It comes on you, it fills you, and then you understand it. But when it goes away you can't understand it at all any longer.