The pattern of the narrative never of necessity wants to end, it never has to.

I don’t think any man writing can worry about what the act of writing costs him, even though at times he is very aware of it.

O love, where are you leading me now?

Love, if you love me, lie next to me. Be for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- lust of intentional indifference. Be wet with a decent happiness.

What a great thing! To be a writer! Words are something you can carry in your head. You can really 'travel light.'

No matter how wild reality was obviously often being, it was an absolutely secure place, as a tone and intelligence, and a thing happening.

Form is never more than an extension of content.