When I was a child... I was watching a snowstorm, and hopefully asked, 'Momma, do we believe in winter?'

Obviously the facts are never just coming at you but are incorporated by an imagination that is formed by your previous experience. Memories of the past are not memories of facts but memories of your imaginings of the facts.

Everybody who flashed the signs of loyalty he took to be loyal. Everybody who flashed the signs of intelligence he took to be intelligent. And so he had failed to see into his daughter, failed to see into his wife, failed to see into his one and only mistress—probably had never even begun to see into himself

Life is just a short period of time in which you are alive.

It's best to give while your hand is still warm.

Writing turns you into somebody who's always wrong. the illusion that you may get it right someday is the perversity that draws you on. What else could? As pathological phenomena go, it doesn't completely wreck your life.

The secret to living in the rush of the world with a minimum of pain is to get as many people as possible to string along with your delusions.