In real life, it is the hare who wins. Every time. Look around you. And in any case it is my contention that Aesop was writing for the tortoise market. Hares have no time to read. They are too busy winning the game.

The self-fulfilled woman is far from reality.

I need noise and interruptions and irritation: irritation and discomfort are a great starter. The loneliness of doing it any other way would kill me.

You can never betray the people who are dead, so you go on being a public Jew; the dead can't answer slurs, but I'm here. I would love to think that Jesus wants me for a sunbeam, but he doesn't.

Writing novels preserves you in a state of innocence - a lot passes you by - simply because your attention is otherwise diverted.

A man of such obvious and exemplary charm must be a liar.

That sun, that light had faded, and she had faded with them. Now she was as grey as the season itself.