There is no loneliness like the loneliness of a dead marriage.

But come back in November or December, in February or March, when the fog, la nebbia, settles upon the city like a marvelous monster, and you will have little trouble believing that things can appear and disappear in this labyrinthine city, or that time here could easily slip in its sprockets and take you, willingly or unwillingly, back.

Everyone's a little crazy when you get inside their head... it's only a matter of degree.

... what is great poetry, after all, but the continuation of the human voice after death?

In any triangle, who is the betrayer, who the unseen rival, and who the humiliated lover? Oneself, oneself, and no one but oneself!

I stand in the mist and cry, thinking of myself standing in the mist and crying, and wondering if I will ever be able to use this experience in a book.

A new dog never replaces an old dog, it merely expands the heart.