I am not a born writer, but I was born a writer.

From birth to death we are alone.

Let this serve as an axiom to every lover: A woman who refuses lunch refuses everything.

After forty years of marriage we still stood with broken swords in our hands.

If a dog doesn't put you first where are you both? In what relation? A dog needs God. It lives by your glances, your wishes. It even shares your humor. This happens about the fifth year. If it doesn't happen you are only keeping an animal.

In marriage there are no manners to keep up, and beneath the wildest accusations no real criticism. Each is familiar with that ancient child in the other who may erupt again. We are not ridiculous to ourselves. We are ageless. That is the luxury of the wedding ring.

Marriage. The beginning and the end are wonderful. But the middle part is hell.