I don't believe anyone ever suspects how completely unsure I am of my work and myself and what tortures of self-doubting the doubt of others has always given me.

It's hard enough for me to write what I want to write without me trying to write what you say they want me to write which I don't want to write.

Only some radical change can divert the downward course of my spirit, some startling new place or people to arrest the drift, the drag.

The trouble with this world is that everybody has to compromise and conform.

If you can't be yourself, what's the point of being anyone else?

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.

The only unforgivable sin is deliberate cruelty.