At Night, Time Becomes A Calm Sea.

The One Thing I Regret Is That I Will Never Have Time To Read All The Books I Want To Read.

I Shall Live Badly If I Do Not Write, And I Shall Write Badly If I Do Not Live.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.

Writing Is Just Having A Sheet Of Paper, A Pen And Not A Shadow Of An Idea Of What You Are Going To Say.

Houses Are For Private Living, For Friends, And For Dogs.