Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.

A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about.

What people are ashamed of usually makes a good story.

Never befuddle a solitary thrashing with a last annihilation.

Often I think writing is a sheer paring away of oneself leaving always something thinner, barer, more meagre.

Think how you love me,' she whispered. 'I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember.' You'll always be like this to me.' Oh no; but promise me you'll remember.' Her tears were falling. 'I'll be different, but somewhere lost inside me there'll always be the person I am tonight.

You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.