Writers are too neurotic to ever be happy.

And kissed her for a hundred and sixty-nine years.

I have never written anything in one draft, not even a grocery list, although I have heard from friends that this is actually possible.

To do something for someone or something you loved-England or Shakespeare or a dog or the Hodbins or history-wasn't a sacrifice at all. Even if it cost you your freedom, your life, your youth.

One has not lived until one has carried a sixty-pound dog down a sweeping flight of stairs at half-past V in the morning.

No," I said finally. "Slowness in Answering," she said into the handheld. "When's the last time you slept?" "1940" I said promptly, which is the problem with Quickness in Answering.

It is not an easy thing to put on a wet sock.