For lovers, touch is metamorphosis. All the parts of their bodies seem to change, and they seem to become something different and better.

It was a splendid summer morning and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.

Novels are about men and women and children and dogs, not politics.

The world that was not mine yesterday now lies spread out at my feet, a splendor. I seem, in the middle of the night, to have returned to the world of apples, the orchards of Heaven. Perhaps I should take my problems to a shrink, or perhaps I should enjoy the apples that I have, streaked with color like the evening sky.

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

Good writers are often excellent at a hundred other things, but writing promises a greater latitude for the ego.

For lovers, touch is metamorphosis. All the parts of their bodies seem to change, and they seem to become something different and better.