There were hints of sunrise on the rim of the sky, yet it was still dark, and the traces of morning color were like goldfish swimming in ink.
I am a completely horizontal author. I can’t think unless I’m lying down, either in bed or stretched on a couch.
Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.
Still, when all is said, somewhere one must belong: even the soaring falcon returns to its master’s wrist.
I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together.
Have you never heard what the wise man say : all of the future exists in the past.
When seriously explored, the short story seems to me the most difficult and disciplining form of prose writing extant. Whatever control and technique I may have I owe entirely to my training in this medium.
He loved her, he loved her, and until he’d loved her she had never minded being alone...
The better the actor, the more stupid he is.
And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled.
The average personality re-shapes frequently, every few years even our bodies undergo a complete overhaul-desirable or not, it is a natural thing that we should change.
You can’t give your heart to a wild thing.
It’s a very excruciating life facing that blank piece of paper every day and having to reach up somewhere into the clouds and bring something down out of them.
All artists are two-headed calves.
The feeble-minded, the neurotic, the criminal, perhaps, also, the artist, have unpredictability and perverted innocence in common.
Here is a hall without exit, a tunnel without end.
I don’t think I’ve ever drunk champagne before breakfast before. With breakfast on several occasions, but never before before.
I dream of eagles and bring forth sparrows.
Champagne does have one regular drawback: swilled as a regular thing a certain sourness settles in the tummy, and the result is permanent bad breath. Really incurable.
The brain may take advice, but not the heart.