if you wanted to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.

He couldn't even tell whether he was angry or contrite, whether it was forgiveness he wanted or the power to forgive.

Intelligent, thinking people could take things like this in their stride, just as they took the larger absurdities of deadly dull jobs in the city and deadly dull homes in the suburbs. Economic circumstances might force you to live in this environment, but the important thing was to keep from being contaminated. The important thing, always, was to remember who you were.

Being alone has nothing to do with how many people are around.

She just happened to feel like it. Wasn’t that after all, the only reason there was? Had she ever had a less selfish, more complicated reason for doing anything in her life?

Anybody's marriage might benefit from an occasional embargo on talk.

Can you really think artists and writers are the only people entitled to lives of their own?