There isn't any me. I'm you. Don't make up a separate me.

After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love.

I didn't want to kiss you goodbye — that was the trouble — I wanted to kiss you good night — and there's a lot of difference.

It is a hell of a thing to be hungry in your own house.

But life isn't hard to manage when you've nothing to lose.

The whiskey warmed his tongue and the back of his throat, but it did not change his ideas any, and suddenly, looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew that drinking was never going to do any good to him now. Whatever he had now he had, and it was from now on, and if he drank himself unconscious when he woke up it would be there.

There is no rule on how to write.