I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.

Usually I read several books at a time - old books, new books, fiction, nonfiction, verse, anything - and when the bedside heap of a dozen volumes or so has dwindled to two or three, which generally happens by the end of one week, I accumulate another pile.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.

I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.

It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.

There are teachers and students with square minds who are by nature meant to undergo the fascination of catagories. For them, 'schools' and 'movements' are everything; by painting a group symbol on the brow of mediocrity, they condone their own incomprehension of true genius.

Life is a message scribbled in the dark.