There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know about.

She’ll have no lover, for I don’t want her and she’ll see no other.

The musty smell, the bugs, the lonliness, this room, which is part of the street outside-this is all I want from life.

Would you like a whiskey?' I say. 'I've got some.' (That's original. I bet nobody's ever thought of that way of bridging the gap before.)

There is always the other side, always.

After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.

When I think about it, if I had to choose, I'd rather be happy than write.