I say that home is where there is a chair and a glass.

Christmas it seems to me is a necessary festival; we require a season when we can regret all the flaws in our human relationships: it is the feast of failure, sad but consoling.

Like some wines our love could neither mature nor travel.

I thought I am kissing pain and pain belongs to You as happiness never does. I love You in Your pain. I could almost taste metal and salt in the skin, and I thought, How good you are. You might have killed us with happiness, but You let us be with You in pain.

All good novelists have bad memories. What you remember comes out as journalism; what you forget goes into the compost of the imagination.

He was impregnably armored by his good intentions and his ignorance.

It's a strange thing to discover and to believe that you are loved when you know that there is nothing in you for anybody but a parent or a God to love.