The other day I read that last year 58 million tourists came to New York ... where a puny eight million people are trying to live. Unless they own a hotel chain, I don't think a single one of these eight million people are happy about this.

My dream writing room would be the Imperial Library in Vienna.

When Toni Morrison said 'write the book you want to read,' she didn't mean everybody.

I don't care if New York avoided bankruptcy by substituting tourism for the garment business.

I have the exact opposite problem of every writer I've ever met: Every writer I've ever met writes things that are too long, and they have to edit them down.

I hate, simply, to work. I just hate to work, period. I am profoundly slothful. Practically inert.

I hate writing. I will do anything to avoid it. The only way I could write less was if I was dead.