My heart is broken,” she goes. “It’s turned to a piece of stone. I’m no good. That’s what’s as bad as anything, that I’m no good anymore.

I am a cigarette with a body attached to it

I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.

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

Don’t complain, don’t explain.

There are significant moments in everyone's day that can make literature. That's what you ought to write about.

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