“No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.”

“Everything is heavy with dreams when I paint a cave or write to you about one - out of it comes the clatter of dozens of unfettered horses to trample the shadows with dry hooves, and from the friction of the hooves the rejoicing liberates itself in sparks: here I am, the cave and I, in the time that will rot us.”

“I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.”

“So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.”

“I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.”

“To know when to quit. Whether to give up--this is often the question facing the gambler. No one is taught the art of walking away. And the anguish of deciding if I should keep playing is hardly unusual. Will I be able to quit honorably? or am I the type who waits stubbornly for something to happen? something like, for instance, the end of the world? or whatever it might be, maybe my own sudden death, in which case my decision to give up would be beside the point.”

“- How does it feel to have a daughter?- At times it's like holding a warm egg in my hand.”