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What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lives within us.

We wanted this war and now we’ve got it, and I’m not sure that we know what to do with it.

Talking, talking. Spinning a web of words, pale walls of dreams, between myself and all I see.

It’s disturbing at my age to look at a young woman’s destructive behaviour and hear the echoes of it, of one’s own destructiveness in youth.

I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.

Why should anybody be interested in some old man who was a failure?

It may be that the satisfaction I need depends on my going away, so that when I’ve gone and come back, I’ll find it at home.

Sweet is the memory of past troubles.

And maybe I’m a little smarter now than I was before for all the stupid things I’ve done.

Now all my teachers are dead except silence.

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