He sounded like a man who had slept well and didn't owe too much money.

She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket.

The making of a picture ought surely to be a rather fascinating adventure. It is not; it is an endless contention of tawdry egos, some of them powerful, almost all of them vociferous, and almost none of them capable of anything much more creative than credit-stealing and self-promotion.

The flood of print has turned reading into a process of gulping rather than savoring.

The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love.

There are no vital and significant forms of art; there is only art, and precious little of that.

She had eyes like strange sins.