My Only Books Were Women's

All Expression, All Art, Is An Indiscretion We Commit Against Ourselves. This Is Not An 'impoverishment' But An Increase In Wealth, For It Is In This Way That We Make The Short Hours Of Our Lives Live On Beyond Themselves.

At First, When An Idea, A Poem, Or The Desire To Write Takes Hold Of You, Work Is A Pleasure, A Delight, And Your Enthusiasm Knows No Bounds. But Later On You Work With Difficulty, Doggedly, Desperately. For Once You Have Committed Yourself To A Particular Work, Inspiration Changes Its Form And Becomes An Obsession, Like A Love-affair… Which Haunts You Night And Day! Once At Grips With A Work, We Must Master It Completely Before We Can Recover Our Idleness.

What Makes Bad Writers So Annoying Is Their Good Passages.

... Anything Difficult To Say Must Be Shouted From The Rooftops.

The Past Is Such A Subtle Thing. [but] In The End, Nothing Else Exists, Everything Is Made Of The Past, Even The Future.