A man can go along obeying all the rules and then it don't matter a damn anymore.

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

What good are insights? They only make things worse.

Writers will be judged by what they write.

All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I way off base? Because I want you to set me straight if you think I'm wrong. I want to know. I mean, I don't know anything, and I'm the first one to admit it.

Anyone can express himself or herself, but what writers and poets want to do in their work, more than simply express themselves, is communicate.

Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.