The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words.
I don’t know myself, what to do, where to go... I lie in the crack of a book for my comfort... it’s what the world offers... please leave me alone to dream as I fancy.
It is not a single cowardice that drives us into fiction’s fantasies. We often fear that literature is a game we can’t afford to play – the product of idleness and immoral ease. In the grip of that feeling it isn’t life we pursue, but the point and purpose of life – its facility, its use.
It’s a simple world for her. A curtain fluttering – that’s how she is – lives, moves – obediently, yet with every appearnace of freedom and caprice.
Nature punishes gluttony, not avarice or hate.
We were late among the living.