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.

The conversation seemed just as boring and forgettable as details of American history around 1805, for example.

How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.

And no book, and possibly no painting, when it is finished, is ever exactly like the first dream of it.

I was in New York. Hitchcock was in California. He rang me to make a report on his progress and said, I'm having trouble. I've just sacked my second screenwriter

It always gets late with you. - Is that a compliment?

Perhaps it was freedom itself that choked her.