Museums and bookstores should feel, I think, like vacant lots - places where the demands on us are our own demands, where the spirit can find exercise in unsupervised play.

Sex is like money; only too much is enough.

The golf swing is like a suitcase into which we are trying to pack one too many things.

The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.

Hemingway describes literary New York as a bottle full of tapeworms trying to feed on each other.

Being able to write becomes a kind of shield, a way of hiding, a way of too instantly transforming pain into honey.

...but with his mother there's no question of liking him they're not even in a way separate people he began in her stomach and if she gave him life she can take it away and if he feels that withdrawal it will be the grave itself.