I've been wondering about Dostoyevsky. How can a man write so badly, so unbelievably badly, and make you feel so deeply?
In order to write about life first you must live it.
You'll lose it, if you talk about it.
The people that I liked and had not met went to the big cafes because they were lost in them and no one noticed them and they could be alone in them and be together.
I drink a little now once in a while, just to drive the wolf out of the room.
Isn't it pretty to think so?