In my belief, a harvest is also a legacy, for very often what you reap is, in the way of small miracles, more than you consciously know you have sown.
If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.
I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.
My life, which seems so simple and monotonous, is really a complicated affair of cafés where they like me and cafés where they don't, streets that are friendly, streets that aren't, rooms where I might be happy, rooms where I shall never be, looking-glasses I look nice in, looking-glasses I don't, dresses that will be lucky, dresses that won't, and so on.
All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.
Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.
You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.
I do really well when a challenge is put in front of me. I don't just wake up and write. I like being forced to make decisions on the spot. I think that's why I've done so many things as a freelancer.
My research is like my feeling, directed towards what is the principle value in the life--the poetry.
I fell into this thing by accident. I was never supposed to be a photographer.
If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn’t hesitate to do so.