A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.

Get in, get out. Don't linger. Go on.

We knew our days were numbered. We had fouled up our lives and we were getting ready for a shake-up.

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

I've done as many as 20 or 30 drafts of a story. Never less than 10 or 12 drafts.

Remember Haydn's 104 symphonies. Not all of them were great. But there were 104 of them.

Dreams, you know, are what you wake up from.