I enjoy the presence of a woman in the house for brief periods of time. They fall into two categories: the organizers and the slobs. There’s probably a third category—the naggers, who try to get you to do things, but I’ve never run into one of those. Oddly, I have no preference regarding oganizers or slobs, as long as they don’t try to pick my clothes for me. Basically, all women are nurturers and healers, and all men are mental patients to varying degrees. It works fine if people stick to their fated roles. But nobody does.

It's really scary when you have a moment of temporary sanity.

I do write my manuscripts by hand, in pencil on legal pads. Then they are typed on a word processor by my typist.

Everyone looked pensive, which is good cover-up for clueless.

We're all pilgrims on the same journey but some pilgrims have better road maps.

I try to end every chapter with an air of suspense. I try to leave the reader wanting to turn the page.

There are Mafia families that have bought magnificent houses on the North Shore, although not yet the great estates because they don't want that kind of high profile.