... Let us risk the wildest places, Lest we go down in comfort, and despair.

When it's over I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

The end of life has its own nature, also worth our attention. I don't say this without reckoning in the sorrow, the worry, the many diminishments. But surely it is then that a person's character shines or glooms.

There are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving. But who wants easier?

I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst. Death isn't just an idea.

I love the line of Flaubert about observing things very intensely. I think our duty as writers begins not with our own feelings, but with the powers of observing.

It's morning, and again I am that lucky person who is in it.