Oh, love, what an unreasoning creature it grew to be.
I was lonelier than I should be, for a woman in love, or half in love.
I'm an Irish Catholic and I have a long iceberg of guilt.
I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.
Ideally I'd like to spend two evenings a week talking to Proust and another conversing with the Holy Ghost.
Writers are always anxious, always on the run--from the telephone, from responsibilities, from the distractions of the world.