In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness.

There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors.

The work of a writer, his continuing work, depends for breath of life on a certain privacy of heart.

You can be young without money but you can't be old without it.

Death is one moment, and life is so many of them.

And it was about then, about that time, that I began to find life unsatisfactory as an explanation of itself and was forced to adopt the method of the artist of not explaining but putting the blocks together in some other way that seems more significant to him. Which is a rather fancy way of saying I started writing.

You are the only young man that I know of who ignores the fact that the future becomes the present, the present the past, and the past turns into everlasting regret if you don't plan for it.