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

She wrote to him fairly regularly, from a paradise of triple exclamation points and inaccurate observations.

I'm one of the little foxes that spoil the grapes.

If Death stepped miraculously through the glass and came in after you, in all probability you just got up and went along with him, ferociously but quietly.

Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.

I just hope that one day - preferably when we’re both blind drunk - we can talk about it.

I know. I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that.