The feeble-minded, the neurotic, the criminal, perhaps, also, the artist, have unpredictability and perverted innocence in common.

I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany´s.

I'm sure Proust was a big bore.

I was eleven, then I was sixteen. Though no honors came my way, those were the lovely years.

Technically I feel total fluidity in writing. I feel there's nothing technically that I can't do the way a certain sort of pianist feels that. But that doesn't mean it comes easily. It doesn't.

As long as you live, there's always something waiting; and even if it's bad, and you know it's bad, what can you do? You can't stop living.

All artists are two-headed calves.