What's agitating about solitude is the inner voice telling you that you should be mated to somebody, that solitude is a mistake. The inner voice doesn't care about who you find. It just keeps pestering you, tormenting you--if you happen to be me--with homecoming queens first, then girls next door, and finally anybody who might be pleased to see you now and then at the dinner table and in bed on occasion. You look up from reading the newspaper and realize that no one loves you, and no one burns for you.

Savor the imminent weirdness of the day.

The worst mistakes I've made have been the ones directed by sweet-natured hopefulness.

When blame has been assigned, the story is over.

I prefer short stories, but publishers would, of course, rather that writers produce novels, since novels are still more commercially viable.

There's nothing to talk about to strangers anymore, if you know what I mean. Everything I want to say, I say to her.

When readers don't like the book, it's usually because they feel that romantic love is pass or somehow needs more irony.