If there is a secret to writing, I haven’t found it yet. All I know is you need to sit down, clear your mind, and hang in there.

Dogs, bless them, operate on the premise that human beings are fragile and require incessant applications of affection and reassurance. The random lick of a hand and the furry chin draped over the instep are calculated to let the shaky owner know that a friend is nearby.

My friend Phil has a theory that the Lord, having made teenagers, felt constrained to make amends and so created the golden retriever.

And the propensity of weak and empty people to follow a leader into the darkness from which there is no return is still flourishing, as ever.

[On Italy:] ... the country where kindness to strangers is a religion, you can't turn your head without seeing something beautiful, and you can't get a bad meal if you try.

If there is a secret to writing, I haven’t found it yet. All I know is you need to sit down, clear your mind, and hang in there.

[On men:] On their best days, the best of them are eight years old.