The house a woman creates is a Utopia. She can't help it - can't help trying to interest her nearest and dearest not in happiness itself but in the search for it.

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

I acquired that drinker's face before I drank. Drink only confirmed it. The space for it existed in me.

It’s not that you have to achieve anything, it’s that you have to get away from where you are.

In homosexual love the passion is homosexuality itself. What a homosexual loves, as if it were his lover, his country, his art, his land, is homosexuality.

Finding yourself in a hole, at the bottom of a hole, in almost total solitude, and discovering that only writing can save you. To be without the slightest subject for a book, the slightest idea for a book, is to find yourself, once again, before a book. A vast emptiness. A possible book. Before nothing. Before something like living, naked writing, like something terrible, terrible to overcome.

Banality is sometimes striking.