I am going away with him to an unknown country where I shall have no past and no name, and where I shall be born again with a new face and an untried heart.

One keeps forgetting old age up to the very brink of the grave.

There are no ordinary cats.

To write is to pour one’s innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one’s hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god which guides it - and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered bramble and a stunted flower.

Time spent with a cat is never wasted.

In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.

By an image we hold on to our lost treasures, but it is the wrenching loss that forms the image, composes, binds the bouquet.