His meals were always punctual. Whether she cooked well or badly he did not know; it was a matter of total indifference to him. During his meals, which he ate at his writing desk, he was busy with important considerations. As a rule he would not have been able to say what precisely he had in his mouth. He reserved consciousness for real thoughts; they depend upon it; without consciousness, thoughts are unthinkable. Chewing and digestion happen of themselves.

Words raced thru his mind and his fingers ached to capture them all on paper.

I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalanced

What doesn't kill us gives us something new to write about.

I write about romance and passion to savour love twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about.