Is death that which gives meaning to life? And I said, no, life is that which gives meaning to life.

There's not a strong autobiographical strain in my fiction. A few bits of fact here and there.

The privileged classes can afford psychoanalysis and whiskey. Whereas all we get is sermons and sour wine. This is manifestly unfair. I protest, silently.

There was no particular point at which I stopped being promising.

I think writers like old cities and are made very nervous by new cities.

We are what we have been told about ourselves. We are the sum of the messages we have received. The true messages. The false messages.

There is no moment that exceeds in beauty that moment when one looks at a woman and finds that she is looking at you in the same way that you are looking at her. The moment in which she bestows that look that says, "Proceed with your evil plan, sumbitch.