One of the odd things about being a writer is that you never reach a point of certainty, a point of mastery where you can say, Right. Now I understand how this is done.

To live in a city is to be forever flinching.

You think you want the blue skies, the open road, but really you want the tunnel, you want to know how the story ends.

These bits of poetry that stick to her like burrs.

Also she signed away the right to self-destruct years ago. The fine print on the birth certificate, her friends call it.

The reason to have a home is to keep certain people in and everyone else out.

And that phrase - 'sleeping like a baby.' Some blonde said it blithely on the subway the other day. I wanted to lie down next to her and scream for five hours in her ear.