I don't want to look at something that determines me so completely.

Nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.

No male writer is likely to be asked to sit on a panel addressing itself to the special problems of a male writer.

The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.

In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys.

In the First World War, people would be receiving letters from loved ones who had been dead for weeks, and they would not know until that black-bordered telegram arrived. I remember, of course, when it was letters only, or the telephone, and you did not make expensive long-distance calls unless it was, "Come home to the funeral," or the like.

What we share may be a lot like a traffic accident but we get one another. We are survivors of each other. We have been shark to one another, but also lifeboat. That counts for something.