Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.
I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life.
If in 100 years I am only known as the man who invented Sherlock Holmes then I will have considered my life a failure.
And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.
But even if writing is there, always ready to scream, to cry, one does not write it. Emotions of that order, very subtle, very profound, very carnal, and essential, and completely unpredictable, can hatch entire lives in a body. That is what writing is. It’s the pace of the written word passing through your body. Crossing it. That’s where one starts to talk about those emotions that are hard to say, that are so foreign, and yet that suddenly grab hold of you.
Be happy for no reason, like a child. If you are happy for a reason, you’re in trouble, because that reason can be taken from you.
I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of the glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world.
The most wasted of all days is that on which one has not laughed.
I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul.