From Ernest Hemingway's stories I learned to listen within my stories for what went unsaid by my characters.

Rebirth. I mean by this simply what happens when the child begins to realise the fact that the black does not enter through the white’s front door is not in the same category as the fact that the dead will never come back.

Responsibility is what awaits outside the Eden of Creativity.

Any writer of any worth at all hopes to play only a pocket-torch of light - and rarely, through genius, a sudden flambeau - into the bloody yet beautiful labyrinth of human experience, of being.

Everyone ends up moving alone towards the self

In a certain sense a writer is 'selected' by his subject - his subject being the consciousness of his own era.

I couldn't be sufficiently interested in human beings to be a writer if I had contempt for human beings.