They threw me off the haytruck about noon.
I make no conscious effort to be tough, or hard-boiled, or grim, or any of the things I am usually called.
I write of the wish that comes true--for some reason, a terrifying thought.
New York is not even a city, it's a congerie of rotten villages.
She was a little given to rehearsing things in her mind, and having imaginary triumphs over people who had upset her in one way and another.
You have to wait for your mind to catch up with whatever it is it’s working on; then you can write a novel.