The echoes of beauty you've seen transpire, Resound through dying coals of a campfire.

I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.

In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his father rowing, he felt quite sure that he would never die.

A beautiful vacuum filled with wealthy monogamists, all powerful and members of the best families all drinking themselves to death.

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.

You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development.

You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again.