“A writer in someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is.”

“A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is: when I speak of writing, what comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or literary tradition, it is a person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and alone, turns inward; amid its shadows, he builds a new world with words.”

“I'm a fifty-three-year-old writer who can remember being a ten-year-old writer and who expects someday to be an eighty-year-old writer.”

“He's nothing fierce or terrible or filled with light. He's like us, sometimes we can't even tell him apart. Sometimes we're the ones who try to save him. He's there to show us who we are. Human beings aren't gods. We makes mistakes.”

“...a great man who is vicious will only be a great doer of evil, and a rich man who is not liberal will be only a miserly beggar; for the possessor of wealth is not made happy by possessing it, but by spending it - and not by spending as he please but by knowing how to spend it well. To the poor gentleman there is no other way of showing that he is a gentleman than by virtue, by being affable, well-bred, courteous, gentle-mannered and helpful; not haughty, arrogant or censorious, but above all by being charitable...and no one who sees him adorned with the virtues I have mentioned, will fail to recognize and judge him, though he know him not, to be of good stock.”

“No, I chastised myself. I should be happy for him. I’d let him go. I’d turned down his request to be with me, so now I had no room to judge who he chose to be with. I needed to be happy for him, but I wasn’t. Knowing he was laughing and smiling with someone else, that he was flirting and teasing someone who wasn’t me ignited a feeling inside me that I’d fought so hard to bury. Suddenly, I was drawn to him like I hadn’t been in years, and I couldn’t ignore it.”