“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”

I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.

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

In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.

It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.

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.