There are few things more subtly distressing than an inappropriate gift from someone close to you.

Sex almost always disappoints me in novels. Everything can be said or done now, and that's what I often find: everything, a feeling of generality or dispersal. But in my experience, true sex is so particular, so peculiar to the person who yearns for it. Only he or she, and no one else, would desire so very much that very person under those circumstances. In fiction, I miss that sense of terrific specificity.

Travel is like adultery: one is always tempted to be unfaithful to one's own country. To have imagination is inevitably to be dissatisfied with where you live. There is in men, as Peter Quennell said, "a centrifugal tendency." In our wanderlust, we are lovers looking for consummation.

In novels, I said, people are transfigured by love. They’re elevated, made different, lifted out of their ordinariness…It’s not so much to ask, I said. I just want love to live up to its publicity.

Ruefulness is one of the classical tones of American fiction. It fosters a native, deglamorized form of anxiety.

Either a writer doesn't want to talk about his work, or he talks about it more than you want.

Sometimes it seems that we might have been happier if we had once had an aristocracy to blame everything on.