I read "The Group" by Mary McCarthy. It had tons of sex in it, or so I thought at the time.

My sorrow is I used to read all the time and now, as a writer, I don't have the time to read.

I wasn't quite as certain that I knew her soul. When it came right down to it, I wasn't sure she knew me either.

I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real.... Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.

In a world of sorrow, love was an act of will. All you needed were the right ingredients.

The weak are cruel. The strong have no need to be.

She liked to disappear, even when she was in the same room as other people. It was a talent, as it was a curse.