Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.

Writing is still like heaving bricks over a wall.

for it was not knowledge but unity that she desired, not inscriptions on tablets, nothing that could be written in any language known to men, but intimacy itself, which is knowledge

You send a boy to school in order to make friends - the right sort.

The real novelist, the perfectly simple human being, could go on, indefinitely imaging.

Come indoors then, and open the books on your library shelves. For you have a library and a good one. A working library, a living library; a library where nothing is chained down and nothing is locked up; a library where the songs of the singers rise naturally from the lives of the livers.

At 46 one must be a miser; only have time for essentials.