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

It's akin to style, what I'm talking about, but it isn't style alone. It is the writer's particular and unmistakable signature on everything he writes. It is his world and no other. This is one of the things that distinguishes one writer from another. Not talent. There's plenty of that around. But a writer who has some special way of looking at things and who gives artistic expression to that way of looking: that writer may be around for a time.

A man can go along obeying all the rules and then it don't matter a damn anymore.

He wondered if she wondered if he were watching her.

There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me.

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

A little autobiography and a lot of imagination are best.