Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay.

Even a child with normal feet was in love with the world after he had got a new pair of shoes.

Children know by instinct that hell is an absence of love, and they can pick out theirs without missing.

I once received a letter from an old lady in California who informed me that when the tired reader comes home at night, he wishes to read something that will lift up his heart. And it seems her heart had not been lifted up by anything of mine she had read. I think that if her heart had been in the right place, it would have been lifted up.

Elizabeth Hardwick told me once that all her first drafts sounded as if a chicken had written them. So do mine for the most part.

To expect too much is to have a sentimental view of life and this is a softness that ends in bitterness.

The truth is not distorted here, but rather a distortion is used to get at truth.