Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
Happy is the novelist who manages to preserve an actual love letter that he received when he was young within a work of fiction, embedded in it like a clean bullet in flabby flesh and quite secure there, among spurious lives.
Let all of life be an unfettered howl.
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
The pleasures of writing correspond exactly to the pleasures of reading