I guess my writing has changed as my life has.

But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.

When a reader finishes a wonderful story and lays it aside, he should have to pause for a minute and collect himself.

I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.

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

I am too nervous to eat pie.

He wondered if she wondered if he were watching her.