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

No other human being, no woman, no poem or music, book or painting can replace alcohol in its power to give man the illusion of real creation.

A prolonged silence ensues. The reason for the silence is our growing interest one for the other. No one is aware of it, no one yet; no one? am I quite sure?

Get rid of things or you'll spend your whole life tidying up.

Suddenly, all at once, she knows, knows that he doesn't understand her, that he never will, that he lacks the power to understand such perverseness. And that he can never move fast enough to catch her.

I have never waited for anything the way I've waited for today, when nothing will happen.

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.