It is almost as if happiness is an acquired taste, like coconut cordial or ceviche, to which you can eventually become accustomed, but despair is something surprising each time you encounter it.

Writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day.

For Beatrice, summer without you is as cold as winter. Winter without you, is even colder.

Tell me what it is, or prepare to eat harpoon.

But just suddenly I really, really needed to see you again right that minute, that night.

Dead women tell no tales. Sad men write them down.

My chauffer once told me that I would feel better in the morning, but when I woke up the two of us were still on a tiny island surrounded by man-eating crocodiles, and, as I'm sure you can understand, I didn't feel any better about it.