People belong to each other only as long as they both believe. He stopped believing.

And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest. I'm thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull, and Hemingway? Who wants a Hemingway?

Don't tell readers what to think. Let the action speak for itself.

Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.

Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.

The way I see it, how can you really say you'll love a person longer than love lasts?

I miss good old-fashioned honorable people just trying to make something of life. Simply, without hurting anyone else. I know that makes me a sap.