You see, baby, after a glass or two of wine I’m inclined to extravagance.

The scene is memory and is therefore nonrealistic. Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.

A man, when he burns, leaves only a handful of ashes. No woman can hold him. The wind must blow him away.

Since that day, when people have spoken to me of "genius", I have felt the inside pocket to make sure my wallet's still there.

At the age of fourteen I discovered writing as an escape from a world of reality in which I felt acutely uncomfortable.

I'm tired and it's taking an increasing amount out of me, more than I have to give physically. And that's why I want to move to Sicily and buy that little farm and raise a flock of goats and geese. I find it peaceful ... and it would be a nice way to end life.

In memory everything seems to happen to music.