Trains induce such terrible anxiety. They image the possibility of total and irrevocable failure. They are also dirty, rackety, packed with strangers, an object lesson in the foul contingency of life: the talkative fellow-traveller, the possibility of children.

Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.

One doesn't have to get anywhere in a marriage. It's not a public conveyance.

They are universal places, like churches, hallowed meeting places of all mankind.

Art is the final cunning of the human soul which would rather do anything than face the gods.

There is nothing like the bootless solitude of those who are caged together.

I am not famous for anything in particular. I am just famous.