One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.
A writer can have only one language, if language is going to mean anything to him.
Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.
Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.
All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
I think writing about unhappiness is probably the source of my popularity, if I have any - after all, most people are unhappy, don't you think?