Sunday afternoons are the longest afternoons of all.

But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes. The heart of a hurt child can shrink so that forever afterward it is hard and pitted as the seed of a peach. Or again, the heart of such a child may fester and swell until it is a misery to carry within the body, easily chafed and hurt by the most ordinary things.

His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.

The value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

The writer is by nature a dreamer - a conscious dreamer.

I have more to say than Hemingway, and God knows, I say it better than Faulkner.

There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.