I never think about the actual process of writing. I suppose I have a superstition about examining it too closely.

I've always enjoyed studying the small clues that indicate a particular class level.

I've always thought a hotel ought to offer optional small animals. I mean a cat to sleep on your bed at night, or a dog of some kind to act pleased when you come in. You ever notice how a hotel room feels so lifeless?

Everything was leveled, there were no extremes of joy or sorrow any more but only habit, routine, ancient family names and rites and customs, slow careful old people moving cautiously around furniture that had sat in the same positions for fifty years.

It struck her all at once that dealing with other human beings was an awful lot of work.

There is no true life. Your true life is the one you end up with, whatever it may be. You just do the best you can with what you've got.

Just because we're related doesn't mean we are any good at understanding each other.