The thing about Proust is his combination of the utmost sensibility with the utmost tenacity. He searches out these butterfly shades to the last grain. He is as tough as catgut and as evanescent as a butterfly's bloom.

Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.

There is no doubt in my mind, that I have found out how to begin (at 40) to say something in my own voice.

A thousand things to be written had I time: had I power. A very little writing uses up my capacity for writing.

What a comfort is friendship in this world.

Criticism? An artist wants praise. Praise.

Words belong to each other.