Now I become myself. It’s taken time, many years and places.

have the courage to write whatever your dream is for yourself.

My own feeling is that the only possible reason for engaging in the hard labor of writing a novel, is that one is bothered by something one needs to understand, and can come to understand only through the characters in the imagined situation.

Is it perhaps the one necessity of love, that it be needed? And the one great human tragedy that it so rarely is?

Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.

Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?

Innocence is not pure so much as pleased, Always expectant, bright-eyed, self-enclosed