I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.

I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.

My best friends when I was young were always doctors. I used to dress up in a white gauze helmet and go round and see babies born and cadavers cut open. This fascinated me, but I could never bring myself to disciplining myself to the point where I could learn all the details that one has to learn to be a good doctor. This is the sort of opposition: somebody who deals directly with human experiences, is able to cure, to mend, to help, this sort of thing.

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.

My wanting to write books annihilates the original root impulse that would have me bravely and blunderingly working on them.

Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.