Very often I'll find out at the end of a book what I put in at the beginning. A sort of process of elimination and discovery in one.

At the end of their relationship she asked if they could still remain friends. His face stayed expressionless until he said "No. Because we put friends in boxes. You see them once in a while, or even a lot, but still they have their box in your life, their specific place. Their *category.* That's one of the great things about being someone's love-- you have no box in their life because you're part of all their boxes. You're their friend, their lover, their confidante-- all those things. I don't want to be put in one of your boxes and I don't want to shrink you to fit into one of mine.

Coffee on an airplane always smells bad. Whenever it is served, suddenly the whole cabin stinks of it.

Everyone coming out of a perfume store is smelling the back of their hand.

Why do people always gesture with their hands when they talk on the phone?

Even the handsomest men do not have the same momentary effect on the world as a truly beautiful woman does.

Both young children and old people have a lot of time on their hands. That's probably why they get along so well.