“For books continue each other, in spite of our habit of judging them separately.”

I have lost friends, some by death, others by sheer inability to cross the street.

I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.

Intimacy is a difficult art.

They went in and out of each other’s minds without any effort.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.

Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time.

Nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy.

Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.

Style is a very simple matter; it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words.

No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.

He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life.

He smiled the most exquisite smile, veiled by memory, tinged by dreams.

The extraordinary woman depends on the ordinary woman.

I will go down with my colours flying.

Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.

Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.

Only picture to yourself a nice soft wife on a sofa with good fire, & books & music.

If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.

I don’t care if a reader hates one of my stories, just as long as he finishes the book.

People cannot become truly knowledgeable without being excellent readers.

The love of books is among the choicest gifts of the gods.

I put things down on sheets of paper and stuff them in my pockets. When I have enough, I have a book.

I am a machine condemned to devour books.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.