Each book is, in a sense, an argument with myself, and I would write it, whether it is ever published or not.

How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.

And no book, and possibly no painting, when it is finished, is ever exactly like the first dream of it.

I have no television - I hate it.

It always gets late with you. - Is that a compliment?

My New Year’s Eve Toast: to all the devils, lusts, passions, greeds, envies, loves, hates, strange desires, enemies ghostly and real, the army of memories, with which I do battle — may they never give me peace. (New Year's Eve, 1947)

One situation – maybe one alone – could drive me to murder: family life, togetherness.