Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.

There is a mystery in all great writing and that mystery does not dissect out. It continues and is always valid.

The people that I liked and had not met went to the big cafes because they were lost in them and no one noticed them and they could be alone in them and be together.

You know you’re writing well when you're throwing good stuff into the wastebasket.

It's silly not to hope. It's a sin he thought.

There are some things which cannot be learned quickly, and time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring.

I love you for all that you are, all that you have been, all that you're yet to be.