I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word. Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.

In heterosexual love there's no solution. Man and woman are irreconcilable, and it's the doomed attempt to do the impossible, repeated in each new affair, that lends heterosexual love its grandeur.

It has been my face. It's got older still, or course, but less, comparatively, than it would otherwise have done. It's scored with deep, dry wrinkles, the skin is cracked. But my face hasn't collapsed, as some with fine feature have done. It's kept the same contours, but its substance has been laid waste. I have a face laid waste.

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.

It was the men I deceived the most that I loved the most.

There are many women who write as they think they should write - to imitate men and make a place for themselves in literature.