A story is not something of this world. A real story requires a kind of magical baptism to link the world on this side with the world on the other side.
You like to write. It’s the single most important quality for someone who wants to be a writer. But not in itself enough.
Knowledge and ability were tools, not things to show off.
You can have tons of talent, but it won’t necessarily keep you fed. If you have sharp instincts, through, you’ll never go hungry.
As long as I was alive, I was something. That was just how it was. But somewhere along the way it all changed. Living turned me into nothing.
Death leaves cans of shaving cream half-used.
I’ll be happy if running and I can grow old together.
There is nothing in this world that never takes a step outside a person’s heart.
Judging the mistakes of strangers is an easy thing to do – and it feels pretty good.
It’s not me but the world that’s deranged.
When people tell a lie about something, they have to make up a bunch of lies to go with the first one. ‘Mythomania’ is the word for it.
The passage of time will usually extract the venom of most things and render them harmless.
What I want is for the two of us to meet somewhere by chance one day, like, passing on the street, or getting on the same bus.
I move, therefore I am.
Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.
In a sense, I’m the one who ruined me: I did it myself.
Loneliness becomes an acid that eats away at you.
Please remember: things are not what they seem.
If you want everything to be nice and straight all the time, then go live in a world made with a triungular ruler.
When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.