Is it not love that knows how to make smooth things rough and rough things smooth?
I don't pick and choose subjects or settings; they pick and choose me.
Put your backbone where your wishbone is.
I have a reputation for being hermitlike. I'm not. I'm just obsessed with my work.
And the process of reading is such a private one. I once came into a room where a friend of mine was reading one of my books, and he clicked his tongue impatiently and shooed me off.
I recall drinking sherry in California and dreaming of England, where I ate dalmoth and dreamed of Delhi. What is the purpose, I wonder, of all this restlessness? I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias.