What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.
Worlds self-made and self-nourished are so full of ghosts and monsters.
We are beginning to see the influence of dream upon reality and reality upon dream.
There is a perfection in everything that cannot be owned.
There is a fissure in my vision and madness will always rush through.
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 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 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.
Some people read to confirm their own hopelessness. Others read to be rescued from it.
Solitude may rust your words.