She took my hand and pulled me after her, her shoulders giving off a sweet peppermint concoction that the bodies of young women sometimes produce to make my life more difficult.

In the first few pages, Kundera discusses several abstract historical figures: Robespierre, Nietzsche, Hitler. For Eunice's sake, I wanted him to get to the plot, to introduce actual "living" characters - I recalled this was a love story - and to leave the world of ideas behind. Here we were, two people lying in bed, Eunice's worried head propped on my collarbone, and I wanted us to feel something in common. I wanted this complex language, this surge of intellect, to be processed into love. Isn't that how they used to do it a century ago, people reading poetry to one another?

The radio station was playing Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, a sure sign that things were much worse than they appeared.

People always write on my Facebook that they've seen somebody they thought was me on the subway, and I was cursing badly.

I write almost entirely in bed or on a couch with my feet up on the coffee table. I feel most creative when Im looking out the window, and my bed and couch have nice views of the New York skyline.

My first book really did change my life. It allowed me to fully express myself. There was a sense that I was worth something as an artist.

I'm the fortieth ugliest man in this bar. But so what! So what!... Isn't this how people used to fall in love?