Who gathers the withered rose?

If I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything.

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

Tomorrow night is nothing but one long sleepless wrestle with yesterday's omissions and regrets.

...the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time.

the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat

If I had not existed, someone else would have written me, Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, all of us.