I'll think about something else. I'll just sit quietly. If I could sit still. If I could sit still, maybe I could read. Oh, all the books are about people who love each other, truly and sweetly. What do they want to write about that for? Don't they know it isn't true? Don't they know it's a lie, it's a God-damned lie? What do they have to tell about that for, when they know how it hurts?

...as for helping me in the outside world, the Convent taught me only that if you spit on a pencil eraser, it will erase ink.

It was written without fear and without research.

I'd like to have money. And I'd like to be a good writer. These two can come together, and I hope they will, but if that's too adorable, I'd rather have money.

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.

His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.

What writes worse than a Theodore Dreiser? ... Two Theodore Dreisers.