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.

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

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.'

The awful thing, as a kid reading, was that you came to the end of the story, and that was it. I mean, it would be heartbreaking that there was no more of it.

Communication is mutual feeling with someone, not a didactic process of information.

I know this body is impatient. I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind. Yet I loved, I love. I want no sentimentality. I want no more than home.