There were moments ... when it seemed that all one could be asked was just to keep the ashtrays clean, the bed made, the wastebaskets emptied, as if one never got to the real things because of the constant exhausting battle to keep ordinary life from falling apart.

What is destructive is impatience, haste, expecting too much too fast.

Anyone who is going to be a writer knows enough at fifteen to write several novels.

What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.

In the middle of the night, things well up from the past that are not always cause for rejoicing--the unsolved, the painful encounters, the mistakes, the reasons for shame or woe. But all, good or bad, give me food for thought, food to grow on.

It is curious how any making of order makes one feel mentally ordered, ordered inside.

Excellence costs a great deal.