There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.

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I always had the deepest affection for people who carried sublime tears in their silences.

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I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.

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We are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

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Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I'm never not thinking of you

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You cannot find peace by avoiding life.

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I am rooted, but I flow.

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The only advice ... that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions.

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I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words.

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How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

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