I've been homesick for countries I've never been, and longed to be where I couldn't be.

We praise Him, we bless Him, we adore Him, we glorify Him, and we wonder who is that baritone across the aisle and that pretty woman on our right who smells of apple blossoms. Our bowels stir and our cod itches and we amend our prayers for the spiritual life with the hope that it will not be too spiritual.

I don't like to see all my energies, all of my youth, wasted in fur coats and radios and slipcovers.

Falsehood is a critical element in fiction. Part of the thrill of being told a story is the chance of being hoodwinked. . .The telling of lies is a sort of sleight of hand that displays our deepest feelings about life.

Everything outside was elegant and savage and fleshy. Everything inside was slow and cool and vacant. It seemed a shame to stay inside.

How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?

I dream that my face appears on a postage stamp.