In an unmoored life like mine, sleep and hunger and work arrange themselves to suit themselves, without consulting me.

I still believe that peace and plenty and happiness can be worked out some way. I am a fool.

It's all like an ocean!" cried Dostoevski. I say it's all like cellophane.

People who were so good. There were angels.

Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, "It might have been.

As Marilee and I were dressing, I whispered to her that I loved her with all my heart. What else was there to say? 'You don't. You can't,' she said.

Thank God for novelists. Thank God there are people willing to write everything down. Otherwise, so much would be forgotten.