I have never gone to a doctor in my adult life, feeling instinctively that doctors meant either cutting or, just as bad, diet.

In his face there came to be a brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise. But still he wandered through the streets of the town, always silent and alone.

There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.

I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.

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

The curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.

They are the we of me.