What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.

It's very selfish when I write. I'm not aware, ever, of writing for another person; I'm not even really aware of writing for myself.

I've been criticised for writing in too complex a manner for younger people.

I like films, or some films, and would be intrigued to see my work on screen.

I'm not very good at being alive. Sometimes I despair of ever mastering it, getting it right. When I'm old, perhaps.

I submitted manuscripts to publishers. This was not so much a feeling that I should be published as a wish to escape the feared and hated drudgery of normal work.

Maidens who stay maidens turn into saints. Old women become sorceresses. Tough jobs, both of these.