The thought that we are enduring the unendurable is one of the things that keeps us going.

There are two cinemas: the films we have actually seen and the memories we have of them.

Being alone and liking it is, for a woman, an act of treachery, an infidelity far more threatening than adultery.

For a woman there is nothing more erotic than being understood.

I would trade many an art-film classic for the final exchange between Redford and Streisand in front of the Plaza.

One of the attributes of love . . . is to bring harmony and order out of chaos.

American eroticism has always been of a different provenance and complexion than the European variety, an enjoyment both furtive and bland that is closer to a blushing cartoon than a sensual celebration.