It is difficult in life to be good, and difficult in art to portray goodness. Perhaps we don't know much about goodness.

A bad review is even less important than whether it is raining in Patagonia.

Art is brief. (Not in a temporal sense.) [...] Words are for concealment. Art is concealment.

Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness.

Food is a profound subject and one, incidentally, about which no writer lies.

In almost every marriage there is a selfish and an unselfish partner. A pattern is set up and soon becomes inflexible, of one person always making the demands and one person always giving way.

The absolute yearning of one human body for another particular body and its indifference to substitutes is one of life's major mysteries.