Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

To restore silence is the role of objects.

I asked her to look at me and after a few moments - (pause) - after a few moments she did, but the eyes just slits, because of the glare I bent over her to get them in the shadow and they opened. (Pause. Low) Let me in.

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.

There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.

The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.

With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.