When I left Merle was wearing a bungalow apron and rolling pie crust. She came to the door wiping her hands on the apron and kissed me on the mouth and began to cry and ran back into the house, leaving the doorway empty [...] I had a funny feeling as I saw the house disappear, as though I had written a poem and it was very good and I had lost it and would never remember it again. (p. 262)

All art at some time and in some manner becomes mass entertainment, and if it does not it dies and is forgotten.

Let us never accept the point of view that mysteries are written by hacks. The poorest of us shed our blood over every chapter. The best of us start from scratch with every new book.

I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. They’re pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter evenings.

The coffee shop smell was strong enough to build a garage on.

A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's lime juice and nothing else.

There was a sad fellow over on a bar stool talking to the bartender, who was polishing a glass and listening with that plastic smile people wear when they are trying not to scream.