Writers really live in the mind and in hotels of the soul.

it is not good to repudiate the dead because then they do not leave you alone, they are like dogs that bark intermittently at night.

There are times when the thing we are seeing changes before our very eyes, and if it is a landscape we praise nature, and if it is celestial we invoke God, but if it is a loved one who defects, we excuse ourselves and say we have to be somewhere and are already late for our next appointment. We do not stay to put pennies over the half-dead eyes.

In every question and every remark tossed back and forth between lovers who have not played out the last fugue, there is one question and it is this: Is there someone new?

What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.

Writers are always anxious, always on the run--from the telephone, from responsibilities, from the distractions of the world.

I know the mistake I am making. I see the exits in life.