The leaf fall of his words, the stained glass hues of his moods, the rust in his voice, the smoke in his mouth, his breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror.
The human father has to be confronted and recognized as human, as a man who created a child and then, by his absence, left the child fatherless and then Godless.
The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase heard.
The enemy of a love is never outside, it’s not a man or woman, it’s what we lack in ourselves.
The dream was always running ahead of one. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.
The dream has to be translated into reality.
The creative personality never remains fixed on the first world it discovers. It never resigns itself to anything.
The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body.
Sometimes we reveal the most when we are least like ourselves.
Some people read to confirm their own hopelessness. Others read to be rescued from it.
Solitude may rust your words.
People living deeply have no fear of death.