If, with the literate, I am Impelled to try an epigram, I never seek to take the credit; We all assume that Oscar said it.

Sure, you make money writing on the coast ... but that money is like so much compressed snow. It goes so fast it melts in your hand.

Like many a better one before me, I have gone down under the force of numbers, under the books and books and books that keep coming out and coming out and coming out, shoals of them, spates of them, flash floods of them, too blame many books, and no sign of an end.

You do what you can, and you do it because you should. But all you can do is all you can do.

Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.

The sun's gone dim, and the moon's gone black. For I loved him, and he didn't love back.

His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.