If I were God, I certainly wouldn't want people to love me sentimentally. It's too unreliable.

The worst thing that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.

She said she knew she was able to fly because when she came down she always had dust on her fingers from touching the light bulbs.

What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

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.

If you're going to say the Jesus Prayer, at least say it to Jesus, and not to St. Francis and Seymour and Heidi's grandfather all wrapped up in one.

Ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the back row.