And now she was back in the world, not one she could make, but the one that had made her, and she felt herself shrinking under the early evening sky. She was weary of being outdoors, but she was not ready to go in. Was that really all there was in life, indoors or out? Wasn't there somewhere else for people to go?

Daylight seemed then to be the physical manifestation of common sense.

Novels without female characters were a lifeless desert.

She sleepwalked from moment to moment, and whole months slipped by without memory, without bearing the faintest imprint of her conscious will.

I like to think that it isn't weakness or evasion, but a final act of kindness, a stand against oblivion and despair.

This is the pain-pleasure of having newly adult children; they're innocent and ruthless in forgetting their sweet old dependence.

Screenwriting is an opportunity to fly first class, be treated like a celebrity, sit around the pool and be betrayed.