Life is all getting used to what you're not used to.
Literature is the province of imagination, and stories, in whatever guise, are meditations on life.
The truth came slowly like a story told by people interrupting each other.
When I had a few francs, I spent them at a café on the Place de Longchamps, a block or so from my pension, where I could order a glass of Beaujolais and a plate of string beans in vinaigrette for the equivalent of fifteen cents.
Life was an impenetrable mystery cloaked in babble.
Imagination has to do with one's awareness of the reality of other people as well as of one's own reality. Imagination is a bridge between the provincialism of the self and the great world.