In the beginning, when I was trying to write, I couldnt turn off the outside world to the extent that I can now.

I am too nervous to eat pie.

It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love.

Don’t complain, don’t explain.

You're...writing for other writers to an extent-the dead writers whose work you admire, as well as the living writers you like to read.

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.

Writers will be judged by what they write.