Blasts from the past were like the rooms one entered and re-entered in dreams: they would not stay nailed down. When you returned to them, they had changed - they suddenly had more space or a tilt or a door that had not been there before. New people were milling around, the floors undulated, and the sun shone newly, strangely in the windows, or through the now blasted-open ceiling, or else it shone not at all, as if having fled the sky.

Love is art, not truth. It’s like painting scenery.

People will do anything, anything, for a really nice laugh.

The only really good piece of advice I have for my students is, 'Write something you'd never show your mother or father. And you know what they say? I could never do that!'

Women now were told not to settle for second best, told that they deserved better, but at a time, it seemed, when there was so much less to go around.

Those are the love killers. They love you and then they kill you. They're from another planet. Supposedly.

I wondered about the half-life of regret.