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

In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.

But they know. They all know. And what am I against so many…?

And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.

You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.