Alcohol is barren. The words a man speaks in the night of drunkenness fade like the darkness itself at the coming of day.

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

In love there are no vacations. No such thing. Love has to be lived fully with its boredom and all that.

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.

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.

She says people ought to learn to live like them, with the body abandoned in a wilderness, and in the mind the memory of a single kiss, a single word, a single look to stand for a whole love.

Banality is sometimes striking.