And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.

Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.

The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free.

I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth.

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

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

Solitude was corrupting me.