The artistic temperament is particularly unhelpful if it is just that, with no end product.

Complaining about boring football is a little like complaining about the sad ending of King Lear: it misses the point somehow.

And it isn't that I'm so unhappy I don't want to live anymore. That's not what it feels like. It feels more like I'm tired and bored and the party's gone on too long and I want to go home. I feel flat and there doesn't seem to be anything to look forward to, so I'd rather call it a day.

Most people have a rope that ties them to someone, and that rope can be short or it can be long. (Be long. Belong. Get it?) You don't know how long, though. It's not your choice.

What good were real feelings anyway?

Women who disapprove of men - and there's plenty to disapprove of - should remember how we started out, and how far we had to travel.

Like all books that have that kind of momentum, it starts from word of mouth.