The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.

You quickly find, when you are a hand-reader as I am, that nothing interests people so much as themselves.

In the animal world individuals cheat, as do we.

When they're gone out of his head, these words, they'll be gone, everywhere, forever. As if they had never been.

In the evenings there's been thunder, a distant bumping and stumbling, like God on a sullen binge.

I didn't want him to become gray and multi-dimensional and complicated like everyone else. Was every Heathcliff a Linton in disguise?

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