...how false the most profound book turns out to be when applied to life.

I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.

All of us have failed to match our dream of perfection. I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible. If I could write all my work again, I'm convinced I could do it better. This is the healthiest condition for an artist. That's why he keeps working, trying again: he believes each time that this time he will do it, bring it off. Of course he won't.

Surely heaven must have something of the color and shape of whatever village or hill or cottage of which the believer says, This is my own.

I will never lie again.

In every writer there is a certain amount of the scavenger.

That's a very good way to learn the craft of writing - from reading.