Never stop writing because you have run out of ideas. Fill the lacunae of inspiration by tidily copying out what is already written.

Genuine polemics approach a book as lovingly as a cannibal spices a baby.

The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out.

Work on a good piece of writing proceeds on three levels: a musical one, where it is composed, an architectural one, where it is constructed, and finally a textile one, where it is woven.

Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.

Literature tells very little to those who understand it.

Only for the sake of the hopeless ones have we been given hope.