He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive.

Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.

Everywhere we go and move on and change, something's lost--something's left behind. You can't ever quite repeat anything, and I've been so yours, here--

Baltimore is warm but pleasant... I belong here, where everything is civilized and gay and rotted and polite.

To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their (W/E Egg) dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

Prose talent depends on having something to say and an interesting, highly developed way of saying it.

So they were desperately in love and being desperately in love involves a desperate existence.