"From so much self-revising, I’ve destroyed myself. From so much self-thinking, I’m now my thoughts and not I"
"Their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind."
"With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?"
"When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else."