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 dream was always running ahead of one. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.
The creative personality never remains fixed on the first world it discovers. It never resigns itself to anything.
Passivity, like the passivity of India induced by religion, is destructive both to human life and to art.
Life is so fluid that one can only hope to capture the living moment, to capture it alive and fresh — not the ordinary moment of an ordinary day but the critical moment of human relationships. How to capture this oscillation within the prison of cold print, without destroying that movement?