I used to take my short stories to girls' homes and read them to them. Can you imagine the reaction reading a short story to a girl instead of pawing her?

You let the story cool off and then, instead of rewriting it, you relive it.

I want to hold onto this funny thing. God, it's gotten big on me. I don't know what it is. I'm so damned unhappy, I'm so mad, and I don't know why. I feel like I'm putting on weight. I feel fat. I feel like I'm saving a lot of things, and I don't know what. I might even start reading books.

For about 150 days a year in Venice, the sun doesn't show through the mist until noon.

You're not like the others. I've seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon.

Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were headed for shore.

How talented was death. How many expressions and manipulations of hand, face, body, no two alike.