But there was not a moment when she did not see Carol in her mind, and all she saw, she seemed to see through Carol. That evening, the dark flat streets of New York, the tomorrow of work, the milk bottle dropped and broken in her sink, became unimportant. She flung herself on her bed and drew a line with a pencil on a piece of paper. And another line, carefully, and another. A world was born around her, like a bright forest with a million shimmering leaves.

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.

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

one blow in anger [would] kill, probably, a child from aged two to eight. Those over eight would take two blows to kill.

I have Graham Greene's telephone number, but I wouldn't dream of using it. I don't seek out writers because we all want to be alone.

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

What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them?