I Have Always Tried To

Madame....gloatingly Savored Her Words As Earlier She Had Savored Her Pig's Trotter.

I Would Like To Carve My Novel In A Piece Of Wood.

It Was Night And I Could See A Large And Calm Lake, Reflecting The Moon. Black Mountains Rose Around It. I Arrived From Between Two Of These Mountains, I Looked At The Lake And The Moon, And That Was It, Nothing Else Happened.

Writing Is Not A Profession But A Vocation Of Unhappiness. I Don't Think An Artist Can Ever Be Happy.

The Place Smelled Of Fairgrounds, Of Lazy Crowds, Of Nights When You Stayed Out Because You Couldn't Go To Bed, And It Smelled Like New York, Of Its Calm And Brutal Indifference.