Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.

Our psychological reality, which lies below the surface, frightens us because it endlessly surprises us and drives us in a direction which society's rules and organizations define as wrong or dangerous.

        — The Novel of the Future (New York: Collier Books), 1970