The house of fiction has in short not one window, but a million, ... but they are, singly, as nothing without the posted presence of the watcher.
I feel that it is healthier to look out at the world through a window than through a mirror. Otherwise, all you see is yourself and whatever is behind you.
A writer is an eternal outsider, his nose pressed against whatever window on the other side of which he sees his material.
My love is like some raven at my window with a broken wing.
I begin with an image of some sort, just as if you saw something out of a window, and then went to the window to see what it was.
I find it impossible to think of a picture save as a window, and my first concern about a window is to find out what it looks out on... and there is nothing I love so much as something which stretches away from me out of sight.
In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
I sit at my window and the words fly past me like birds — with God's help I catch some.
Unhappiness comes from mirrors. Happiness comes from windows.
Life may be seen through many windows, none of them necessarily clear or opaque, less or more distorting than any of the others.
Perhaps the window is not a sun but an asterisk, interrupting the grammar of the sky, with me sitting below it like a footnote.
