Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.

Many universities have asked me to come for a semester but I don't want to do it because I don't have the patience.

Did you ever, in that wonderland wilderness of adolesence [sic] ever, quite unexpectedly, see something, a dusk sky, a wild bird, a landscape, so exquisite terror touched you at the bone? And you are afraid, terribly afraid the smallest movement, a leaf, say, turning in the wind, will shatter all? That is, I think, the way love is, or should be: one lives in beautiful terror.

[L]ove, having no geography, knows no boundaries.

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

Great fury, like great whisky, requires long fermentation.

Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.