I was not so old that I would deny my own senses.

You are young, and in love. Every young man in your position is the most miserable young man who ever lived.

What need, Dunstan wondered, could someone have of the storm-filled eggshells?

For love is no part of the dreamworld. Love belongs to Desire, and Desire is always cruel.

I suspect there are two kinds of novelists. Those who have a point of view and have something to say and then write a novel in order to say that thing, and those of us who write the book in order to find out what we think about that thing.

I loved all books that I could read, and I never knew if I was ready for it until I tried to read it, so I tried to read everything.

For the record, I don't expect you to believe any of this. Not really. I'm a liar by trade, after all; albeit, I like to think, an honest liar.