A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.

All mothers are slightly insane.

It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world.

If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet.

I know he's dead! Don't you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can't I? Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake--especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all.

You know, I'm the only one in this family who has no problems, . . . And you know why? Because any time I'm feeling blue, or puzzled , what I do, I just invite a few people to come visit me in the bathroom, and--well, we iron things out together, that's all.

They didn't act like people and they didn't act like actors. It's hard to explain. They acted more like they knew they were celebrities and all. I mean they were good, but they were too good.