The trouble with life (the novelist will feel) is its amorphousness, its ridiculous fluidity. Look at it: thinly plotted, largely themeless, sentimental and ineluctably trite. The dialogue is poor, or at least violently uneven. The twists are either predictable or sensationalist. And it�s always the same beginning, and the same ending.

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Sometimes I feel that life is passing me by, not slowly either, but with ropes of steam and spark-spattered wheels and a hoarse roar of power or terror. It's passing, yet I'm the one who's doing all the moving. I'm not the station, I'm not the stop: I'm the train. I'm the train.

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Life does rhyme: it rhymes all the time.

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Life is made of fear. Some people eat fear soup three times a day. Some people eat fear soup all the meals there are. I eat it sometimes. When they bring me fear soup to eat, I try not to eat it, I try to send it back. But sometimes I'm too afraid to and have to eat it anyway.

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My today and each of my yesterdays, my rises and falls, are so diverse that I sometimes feel as if I had lived not one, but several existences, each one different from the others.

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Exalt yourself by devoting yourself to others, enrich yourself by making everyone�s destiny your own, by enduring and understanding every facet of human suffering through your pity.

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Maybe everything�s not so hard, maybe life is so much easier than I thought, you just need courage, you just need to have a sense of yourself, then you�ll discover your hidden resources.

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Only the person who has experienced light and darkness, war and peace, rise and fall, only that person has truly experienced life.

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If you don't believe there's a price for this sweet paradise, just remind me to show you the scars.

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People seldom do what they believe in. They do what is convenient, then repent.

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