I've dealt with a lot of producers who were pricks and I'm determined not to be that.

If you want to look like the people next door, you're probably smothering yourself into your dreams.

It was as though in these last minutes together - when they had so much to say - they could say nothing of the least significance, for fear it open the floodgates.

Nothing ever begins. There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.

Well, here he was. They could save each other, the way the poets promised lovers should. He was mystery, he was darkness, he was all she had dreamed of. And if she would only free him he would service her - oh yes - until her pleasure reached that threshold that, like all thresholds, was a place where the strong grew stronger, and the weak perished. Pleasure was pain there, and vice versa. And he knew it well enough to call it home.

I don't like to make a distinction between the writer and the painter , finally , because I do both things anyway . Everybody's dreaming and trying to put down their dreams in the way that their hand knows best . I feel as much a unity , as much comradeship , with painters as I do writers .

How many human eyes...had snatched glimpses of their secret anatomies, down the passage of years?