Words without experience are meaningless.

I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling

The sun is a thief: she lures the sea and robs it. The moon is a thief: he steals his silvery light from the sun. The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon.

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.

A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.

The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.

Caress the detail, the divine detail.