The fact would seem to be, if in my situation one may speak of facts, not only that I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak, but also, which is even more interesting, but also that I, which is if possible even more interesting, that I shall have to, I forget, no matter. And at the same time I am obliged to speak. I shall never be silent. Never.

I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.

If you do not love me I shall not be loved If I do not love you I shall not love.

The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness.

The reality of the individualis an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.

My dear Tom, Delighted to get your letter. Do write again. This life is terrible and I don't understand how it can be endured.

There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.