That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
Writing is a form of therapy. Sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.
Time you enjoyed wasting was not wasted.
The test of literature is, I suppose, whether we ourselves live more intensely for the reading of it.
For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.
sea otters hold hands when they sleep, so they don’t drift away from each other.
