The smooth stones you pick up and examine under the moon's light have been made blue from the sea. Next morning when you pull them from your trouser pocket, they are still blue.

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.

Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.

Write about what you know, and what do you know better than your own secrets?

You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.

That's all we have, finally, the words, and they had better be the right ones.