Honesty, for me, is usually the worst policy imaginable.

He liked the fact that Venice had no cars. It made the city human. The streets were like veins, he thought, and the people were the blood, circulating everywhere.

Each book is, in a sense, an argument with myself, and I would write it, whether it is ever published or not.

Anticipation! It occurred to him that his anticipation was more pleasant to him than the experiencing.

When I am thickening my plots, I like to think 'What if ... What if ... ' Thus my imagination can move from the likely, which everyone can think of, to the unlikely-but-possible, my preferred plot.

The kiss became the narrowed center of the still point of the turning world, so that even the park was turning in comparison to the still peace at their lips.

Honestly, I don't understand why people get so worked up about a little murder!