The cat jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not i’m dead. If i’m not, he wants to be scratched; if i am – he’ll think of something.
Now that I am dead, I know everything.
More powerful than God, more evil than the Devil; the poor have it, the rich lack it, and if you eat it you die?
The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free.
One and one and one and one doesn’t equal four. Each one remains unique, there is no way of joining them together. They cannot be exchanged, one for the other. They cannot replace each other.
As all historians know, the past is a great darkness, and filled with echoes.
The fact is that blank pages inspire me with terror. What will I put on them? Will it be good enough? Will I have to throw it out?
God gave unto the Animals A wisdom past our power to see: Each knows innately how to live, Which we must learn laboriously.
I wanted to forget the past, but it refused to forget me; it waited for sleep, then cornered me.
Creating some god for one’s inspirations was always a good way to avoid accusations of pride should the scheme succeed, as well as the blame if did not.
There’s nothing like drawing a thing to make you really see it.
Anaesthesia, that’s one technique: if it hurts, invent a different pain.
But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.
Writing is very improvisational. It’s like trying to fix a broken sewing machine with safety pins and rubber bands. A lot of tinkering.
You can’t keep a cool head when you’re drowning in love. You just trash around a lot and scream, and wear yourself out.
I’ll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I’ll make you me.
I felt white, drained of blood, cared for, purified. Peaceful.
Blank pages inspire me with terror.
It isn’t chic for women to be drunk. Men drunks are more excusable, more easily absolved, but why? It must be thought they have better reasons.
She had no images of this love. She could offer no anecdotes. It was a belief rather than a memory.